


The Third Five Years

by hafital



Series: The Lifetimes of Steve Rogers [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Canon Divergence - Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Fix-It, Gen, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:08:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23683666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hafital/pseuds/hafital
Summary: With Pym particles to spare, Steve goes back to the years after the Snap to try and be the friend he couldn't be the first time around.~*~It was the dead of night, but a field of stars gave off luminous light. Steve appeared on the edge of a highway twenty minutes outside of Willowdale, Virginia, shivering in the below freezing temperature. It was colder than usual for Virginia, a by-product of the Snap. The air had that crystal sharp quality to it, like it had frozen along with the hard ground. Weeks old dirty snow had been scrapped up to create banks along the road. There was no one around—no cars, no lights. Nothing but the icy breeze through the bare trees.
Relationships: Steve Rogers & Bruce Banner, Steve Rogers & Clint Barton, Steve Rogers & Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers & Thor, Steve Rogers & Tony Stark, Steve Rogers/Natasha Romanov
Series: The Lifetimes of Steve Rogers [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1686673
Comments: 48
Kudos: 92





	1. Willowdale, Virginia

**Author's Note:**

> This is part three of a five part series that explores Steve Rogers's travels through the multiverse. The entire series is already written. Part Four: The Alternate Years, will be posted next week.
> 
> If I had to pick a favorite part of this series, this third part would be it, because Steve visits each of the original Avengers and it makes me feel a lot of things. I hope you enjoy! 
> 
> Except for the first part of the series and the epilogue, most of this series takes place entirely within the five seconds after Steve disappears from the platform. It is canon compliant, but since 95% of it takes place in alternate timelines, it is also canon divergent. :D
> 
> This story uses the Alternate Timeline theory of Avengers: Endgame.
> 
> Thank you to killabeez and slb44 for the beta!
> 
> If you would like more information about characters and pairings before reading, please see the end notes.

It was the dead of night, but a field of stars gave off luminous light. Steve appeared on the edge of a highway twenty minutes outside of Willowdale, Virginia, shivering in the below freezing temperature. It was colder than usual for Virginia, a by-product of the Snap. The air had that crystal sharp quality to it, like it had frozen along with the hard ground. Weeks old dirty snow had been scrapped up to create banks along the road. There was no one around—no cars, no lights. Nothing but the icy breeze through the bare trees. 

Steve took the Tahoe from his pocket, and enlarged it back to normal size, praying that it would work. He sighed with relief as the engine turned over without any fuss, and warm air blasted through the vents. 

“Stealth mode,” he said after the onboard computer beeped, asking for voice recognition. 

It answered back to him in a pleasant voice. “Stealth mode engaged.”

He drove into Willowdale, knowing where he needed to go. At three in the morning, Culver University was nearly completely empty. The Tahoe slid noiselessly in stealth mode through the dead quiet streets just north of the campus, where rows and rows of once occupied university housing now sat mostly abandoned. He found a quiet spot within sight of his target and parked, prepared to wait. 

The Captain America uniform had to go. He scrambled into the back seat where he and Bucky had packed all their things from Oregon, rummaging around in search of some warm clothing to change into, grateful when he found a coat, gloves shoved into one of the pockets. 

In the stillness of the pre-dawn morning, Steve reflected on the fact that he was back on Earth again. It felt good, like the gravity welcomed him and the air had the right mixture of oxygen and nitrogen. It felt like home, even though he was not in his own timeline. 

Shadows crept along the darkened street, an air of neglect hanging over both the houses and cars left covered in leaves and bird droppings. Bruce’s house seemed no different, but around seven in the morning, a light switched on and the windows glowed with life. 

Steve wasn’t certain what kind of reception he would get. It was an ungodly hour for a visit, even assuming Bruce would be happy to see him. But he only hesitated for a moment, walking up the steps to knock on the front door. 

After several seconds passed without an answer, he knocked again. Steve began planning to break in and risk the Hulk’s wrath when there came a creak of floorboards, and then the _snick_ of the lock turning. Another creak as the door tentatively swung open.

“Cap?” asked Bruce, confusion written across his face. He had just woken up, hair totally awry, a robe hastily thrown over pajamas. 

“Hi, Bruce,” said Steve. This was the Bruce he remembered, harkening back to their Stark Tower days: scruffy and with that wild, bleary-eyed “I’ve-been-doing-science-and-have-barely-remembered-to-eat-or-comb-my-hair” look. 

“What are you doing here?” asked Bruce. “Is everything okay? Is Nat okay? What’s going on?”

“Everything is fine,” said Steve. A doubtful pause followed, Bruce frowning as if Steve might be a figment of his imagination. “Well, not fine, exactly. But there’s no emergency. I was…in the neighborhood. Thought I’d stop by for a visit.”

Internally, he winced. It didn’t sound convincing at all. Why would he be in Willowdale, Virginia at seven in the morning? Bruce glanced anxiously around like he expected a tactical team and armored vehicles to roll up the street, with Tony and Thor falling out of the sky to land on his front lawn. 

“Bruce. It’s just me. I’m sorry to drop in like this, unannounced,” said Steve. “It was kind of a last minute decision, coming here.” Bruce was still waiting for the other shoe to drop, with that pinched look he sometimes got, uncertain if they would need a Code Green. “It’s good to see you,” said Steve.

And it was. So good to see him, looking this way. Looking the way Bruce would always be in Steve’s mind—normal-sized and charmingly awkward. Steve could only be happy for anything that brought peace for Bruce, and the integration of the Hulk had seemed to do that. But it was good to see this Bruce Banner again.

There must have been something in his tone that signaled his sincerity. Bruce stopped looking around for the sky to fall. “It’s good to see you, too. Get in here. Come in. It’s cold out there. Do you want coffee? I might have food.”

“Coffee would be great,” said Steve, stepping inside. Bruce shut the door and then disappeared farther into the house, leaving Steve in the foyer. 

“Make yourself at home,” Bruce called from the kitchen. “Sorry about the mess.”

In the living room, stacks of books covered every surface. There were two different chalkboards as well as several holoscreen projections, with diagrams of the Hulk or Bruce, or mixtures of both, with equations and formulas, 3D rendered models and spinning holograms. It was cluttered but felt gloriously lived in. Clearly, Bruce spent most of his time in this room. 

Steve took off his jacket, stepping closer to a hologram that showed Bruce’s transformation into the Hulk in slow motion on a constant loop. 

He turned when he sensed Bruce beside him, taking the offered warm coffee mug. Bruce paused the hologram so the image was frozen mid-transformation: half Hulk, half Bruce. 

“I guess you know what I’m planning,” said Bruce. “Did Natasha send you? She’s mad at me. Are you here to stop me? To try to talk me out of it?”

“Natasha isn’t mad at you,” said Steve. He felt confident saying this, though he had never actually spoken to Natasha about Bruce’s decision to integrate the Hulk. Natasha was very closed off whenever the subject of Bruce had been raised between them, even before Bruce’s return to Earth. After the Snap, emotions became complicated, and whatever her thoughts and feelings were, she masked them behind a wall, nodding in simple acknowledgment of any news without indication of how it affected her. Though integrating the two personalities was a solution that worked for Bruce, Steve knew it closed whatever chance she and Bruce may have had at a more intimate relationship, and there was no space there to counsel otherwise. For Natasha, it was one more loss in a sea of loss. “Do you want to be talked out of it?” 

Bruce scrunched up his face, then shrugged. “Maybe.”

Steve shook his head. “I’m not here to stop you. I’m just here as a friend.”

“A friend?” asked Bruce.

“Isn’t that what we are?” 

“Sometimes I wonder. No offense. I don’t know what we were, exactly, the six of us in that Tower. Friends, teammates, family. All of those things, none of those things.”

“Natasha would say family,” he said, gripping Bruce’s shoulder. “And she would be right. But I’m sorry I haven’t been a better friend.”

Bruce shook his head. “You don’t have to apologize. I know how it is.” 

Right now, in Brooklyn, two and half years after the Snap, Steve Rogers only answered the phone for Natasha or Sam’s sister. He hadn’t started leading the group sessions yet. The most he managed to do was go for regular runs through the near empty streets of Brooklyn, and go to the gym. He was in no fit state to be anyone’s friend, let alone family.

“Doesn’t matter,” said Steve. “This time would have been a lot easier if we had been there for each other.” 

Bruce gave him a curious look, and to cover up his bumbling use of the wrong tense, Steve pulled Bruce in for a hug. It surprised him, how willing Bruce came in for the embrace, putting his arms around Steve. It’s what Steve should have done when Bruce first opened the door. It felt good, to hug and be hugged in return, like water on a parched throat. 

“Well I’m here now,” he said, patting Bruce before he pulled away to speak again. “When do you go in? Show me how it’s going to work. Did you bring Tony in on this? I want to know everything.”

“How long are you here for?” asked Bruce, but he perked up, that enthusiasm for science bleeding through. 

Steve shrugged. “As long as we need.”

They spent the rest of the week together, with Bruce showing him around campus, and Steve playing lab assistant. It was a quiet time, with late night talks and lots of take home meals. Steve had no idea if it helped Bruce or not, him being there for a too short period of time, but it was comforting for him. He hoped it was comforting for Bruce, too. 

When it was time to leave, Bruce walked with him to the parked Tahoe, dressed in a big parka, a knitted cap pulled over his ears. Their breath puffed in clouds.

“Will you…Will you come back? When it’s time?” asked Bruce, trying to ask like Steve’s answer didn’t matter. 

Steve’s heart sank. He wanted to say yes, but how could he promise this? The Steve in New York could not be relied on, and Steve would be gone from this reality by then. “I want to,” he said.

Bruce read his hesitancy the wrong way, starting to stammer. “It’s all right,” he said, shaking his head, already pulling away.

Steve stopped him with a hand. “I’m a mess, Bruce. It’s not that I don’t want to. I’m just not sure I’ll be able to. But you shouldn’t be alone. Ask me again. Ask Tony and Natasha also. Please?”

A corner of Bruce’s mouth tugged into a smile. “Okay.” He frowned at Steve, the smile fading from his eyes. “You’re not the same as before.”

Steve froze, trying to play it off. “Are any of us?”

Bruce couldn’t argue with that. “Guess not.” 

Their winter coats made for an awkward hug. When Steve drove away, he looked through his rearview mirror at Bruce’s solitary figure, heading back into his small house.


	2. Miami Beach, Florida

Though it wasn’t obvious, and despite the wall-to-wall windows, the house was heavily protected. No doubt, from the inside it boasted stunning views of the Atlantic. A few seconds observation and Steve noted the guards positioned throughout the grounds. He saw heavily armored vehicles in the driveway. 

The Valenti crime syndicate was doing well for itself during the Snap years, inhabiting a large coastal compound north of Miami, with swaying palm trees and a lush garden. Wealthy, prominent, slick. From his position on the roof of the mansion, Steve lowered his binoculars and suppressed a sigh. A part of him was tempted to let it happen. But if he was going to intercept Barton, who came and went in shadows only, he had to pick his target carefully. The weekly reports Natasha had sent him pinpointed Barton would attack Valenti tonight.

The house and grounds, which were lit up like a Christmas tree, suddenly went dark. Someone had taken out the power grid. The small army on the premises took positions, and everyone went into action. 

The breeze picked up, shivering through the trees. He heard a scream, a muffled cry. In the house, the men were shouting, terrified, surrounding their mistress, Isabel Valenti, with their guns raised.

Steve crouched on the edge of the roof, waiting. One by one the guards stationed throughout the grounds went down. His enhanced hearing picked up the frantic cries over their comms. “He’s coming! He’s coming!” they yelled before cutting out.

Barton was a moving shadow, creeping through the pool area, between cabanas and lounge chairs. As he approached the house, Steve dropped down behind him, landing silently. It took Barton three strides before he caught on, turning swiftly to attack Steve. 

In moonlight they fought, narrowly avoiding tripping into the pool. Steve twisted Barton around, slamming him down onto the cement. “Barton, it’s me,” he said, speaking through his mask. Their eyes met.

“Cap?” asked Barton, hooded head tilting to one side. 

“Yeah.” 

“Are you here to stop me?” he asked.

Steve took a beat to answer. “No. But you’re taking a break.”

For a brief flash, Steve thought Barton would give, but then he elbowed Steve in the face, flipping them over. “Sorry, Cap. I’m a little busy.”

Half a dozen men flooded into the pool area, weapons aimed at their heads. Steve was forced to let Barton go so he could fight. Another ten seconds and he disarmed everyone. The gunmen lay groaning on the ground, their weapons destroyed, but Barton had gone into the house.

Steve listened, tracking sound and movement, searching through the darkened windows. He ran for the glass doors. Inside, the half-full moonlight creating shafts of light along the walls. 

He went from hallway to hallway. Isabel Valenti and her men had barricaded themselves in a back room. As soon as he busted through the doors, her men began shooting. He went low, sliding across the slick floor and disarmed one man, punched out another, and then aimed an appropriated machine gun at the rest. 

Isabel Valenti yelled at her men in Spanish to hold their fire.

He would have expected the head of a worldwide crime syndicate to be an appropriately looking slick mobster-type, or even one of those fatcats smoking a Cuban cigar. Instead, he came face-to-face with a stunningly beautiful woman in her mid-fifties, pale with sleek glossy black hair, fashionable and polished, dark-eyed and cruel. She stood with henchmen on either side of her.

“Ma’am,” he said, through his mask. 

Isabel Valenti’s lip curled. “Que tipo de loco do you come from, m’hijo?” she asked, like she wanted to scold him. She didn’t seem afraid. 

But their conversation, such as it was, was cut short. Her men tensed, raising their guns to point to someone behind Steve. He turned. Barton, dressed in all black with his hood and mask covering his face, stood with his sword at the ready. 

Steve moved to confront him, throwing the machine gun to the side. To Valenti he said, “Get out. Take your men and go.”

Slowly, as if she was deciding whether to obey him or not, she and her men walked toward the door, pausing only when the sound of police sirens filled the silence. She cursed in Spanish. 

Barton attacked and Steve couldn’t worry about Valenti anymore. He bent backward, narrowly avoiding Barton’s blade slicing him from chest to crotch. With speed, he spun around, kicking Barton in the chest and sent him flying across the room, through the wall. Steve strode across, grabbed Barton by his shirt and yanked him back. 

“Enough,” he said, shaking Barton. “We’re leaving.”

Barton seemed to melt, but in a move worthy of Black Widow, he spun into the air, twisting out of Steve’s hold and trapping Steve’s head and neck between his thighs. The next second Steve found himself flat on his back and out of breath. He managed to tear himself free, scrambling to catch Barton’s foot before he got away. 

They wrestled. Ultimately Barton was no match for Steve’s strength and Steve got him in a chokehold, counting down the seconds until Barton passed out. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, speaking quietly. Barton went slack, then became dead weight. 

The police surrounded the house, announcing through a blowhorn they were sending in a SWAT team. Steve looked for Valenti and her men as he got back onto his feet, holding Barton like a rag doll under his arm. Valenti was yelling at the cops, telling them that two crazy men had invaded her home, asking them not too shoot. Steve patted around Barton’s body searching until he found what he needed. He yanked the pin out of a stun grenade, waiting until the SWAT team was right on top before throwing it. At the same time, he called Mjolnir to him.

The flash temporarily blinded everyone. In the ensuing confusion, the hammer came crashing into the house. Steve caught it, spinning it fast as he and Barton shot straight up into the air, bursting through the floors and walls of the house, and out into the night sky. 

He flew to Miami Beach, landing on the balcony of his hotel room. It was a cheap hotel, one he could pay for with cash, not far off the main boulevard. 

It could have gone worse, he guessed, but now that he had Barton what the heck was he going to do with him? Steve dumped his friend onto the bed, taking off Barton’s shoes, and removing his hood and mask, patting his face. “Sleep,” he said to the unconscious man.

Barton was going to be out for at least a couple of hours. Steve sat in the cramped balcony, listening through ear buds to his phone synced with the onboard computer in the Tahoe, tapped into the feed from the local police.

Miami was warmer than Virginia, the air humid and tangy with brewing storms off the coast. The neon lights of Miami Beach shone in artificial colors, giving the impression of a busy nightlife, but it was the off-season, and half the people had been snapped away. The bars played loud reggaeton or calypso music to mostly empty rooms. One by one, as the hour crept past 2 AM, the bars closed, the music ended, and then there was just the sound of ocean waves. 

When the sky turned pink and yellow again, lightening along the horizon, he heard Barton groan into consciousness. Steve re-entered the room and took the only chair to sit by the bed. 

“’Morning,” he said. 

Barton raised his head, squinting at Steve with one eye, then he looked around the room before he made a sound of disgust and lay back down. “Valenti?”

“Taken into custody.”

Barton grunted. “She’ll be out by this afternoon.”

“Probably,” said Steve. 

“Why’d you stop me? Think I shouldn’t kill a lady mobster? Got a thing for smugglers? You like the drugs they bring into this city? You like the girls they traffic?”

Steve grimaced, shook his head. “She’s not why I stopped you. It had nothing to do with her. I owe it to a friend.”

Barton raised his head again. Steve saw regret and pain darken his eyes, saw the deep lines in his face that hadn’t been there before. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“All right, then I owe it to Laura. And to your kids.” The death-look he got would have killed any other man stone cold. Steve tried a different tack. “These…jobs you do, all this killing, who are you doing it for? For the victims? For justice?”

“God damn right it’s for justice,” said Barton.

Steve tightened his lips. He wasn’t getting anywhere like this. Frustrated, he dropped his head, looking down at the roughened floor of the hotel room that had seen better days. They’d all seen better days, he guessed. “Look. I can’t stop you from doing this. I’m not sure I even want to. But for the next twenty-four hours, you’re taking a break. Got that? When I leave here, if you want to pick up where you left off, fine. I won’t be able to stop you, if that’s still what you want to do.”

Barton huffed, shaking his head. “Sure, whatever you say.”

Angered, Steve grabbed Barton by his shirt, hauled him from the bed and slammed him up against the wall. “Hey,” he said, shaking him. “I said no killing, but that doesn’t mean you get to lie here and do nothing. You said it’s about justice? Then prove it. You want Valenti to pay? Let’s make her pay.”

In his timeline, after Barton broke into the Valenti mansion and killed almost everyone inside, sparing only the servants, he went after each of her off-site smuggler hideouts. He found her boats, her shipping containers, each of her warehouses, killing every person who worked for her that he found. It was a bloodbath, up and down the coast of Southern Florida. Natasha had sent regular reports to him, always a few days behind events. It had all been there in black and white.

“What do you mean?” asked Barton. 

“I mean, we take out her operation. Make it impossible for her to rebuild. Maybe we get enough evidence to keep her in jail.” 

Steve searched Barton’s blue eyes, so full of pain. He wanted to shake him again and tell him, “You get them back. They’re not gone. You get them back.” The words choked him. Instead, he gripped Barton’s shoulders until Barton slumped against him. 

“All right, Cap,” said Barton, head bowed. “We do it your way.”

Twenty-four hours later, Steve finished duct taping the hands and feet of five of Valenti’s men, laying them side-by-side on the floor of a dirty warehouse. Over the last day they had raided and taken down four of Valenti’s top operations, leaving men or women tied up and bound, the evidence laid out for the police to collect. This was their final stop.

“Hurry it up,” said Barton, busy wrenching each container in the warehouse open. They were full of contraband, stolen alien technology, and drugs. One container was stuffed solid with nothing but sub-Ultron body parts. In addition to her own merchandise, Valenti got paid large sums to smuggle for other crime operations wanting to bring their illegal goods into the U.S. The Snap had slowed down many things, but crime wasn’t one of them. “Jesus Christ,” said Barton, when he got a good look inside the container, picking up an Ultron head. “I hate these things.”

“Almost done,” said Steve. The last man, a middle-aged, tracksuit-wearing goon with a bad goatee, tried to run away, shuffling with his hands tied behind his back. Steve tripped him, then dragged him next to his co-workers, slapping a piece of tape over his mouth and tying up his feet.

He went to help Barton with the final container. As he twisted the lock to snap it broken, they heard a noise—a kind of soft whining, the jangle of a chain—and they looked at each other with alarm, dread flooding Steve’s stomach. 

Distantly, the familiar sirens of the Miami police started. “Cops are on their way. We have maybe five minutes.”

“Get it open, now,” said Barton, stepping back. On the first of their raids they had found over twenty girls stuffed into the cargo hold of a ship, barely alive, in a space too small for their number. It had made Steve regret stopping Barton from killing Valenti. 

Steve wrenched the container door open, prepared for the worst, but they found only empty animal cages stacked up on one side. Both Steve and Barton choked on the smell. If Valenti was in the exotic animal trade, it looked like they had moved the animals already. Then, a cage rattled, followed by the soft whine they’d heard earlier. 

Barton shone a light into the dark recess of the container. It landed on a single cage. Inside was a dog, staring at them. He whined softly again, one wag of his tail. Some kind of golden retriever mix, thought Steve, with a dirty yellow coat and a chunk of one ear bitten off. It wasn’t starving, but it wasn’t well fed either. 

“Hey,” said Barton, approaching the cage, kneeling down in front of it. The dog whined again, coming closer. Barton was cautious, but the dog was equally afraid. “How’d you get in here?”

Ah, thought Steve as he broke the chain on the cage so Barton could open it and stoop to pick up the dog. So this was why he was here. He’d been wondering what good he could do for Barton by stopping him. What peace could he offer? But it made a little more sense now, watching Barton check the dog for injuries. In his own timeline, he had no idea if Barton had found this warehouse, if he had ever come across a dirty yellow dog.

The dog licked Barton’s face, and Barton cracked a genuine smile, the first Steve had seen from him. “You stink, buddy,” said Barton, fondly. 

It reminded Steve so strongly of Bucky with Max that he had to look away, wondering what it was about his karma that brought so many tenderhearted assassins into his life. 

The sirens grew louder as about twenty cop cars suddenly drove up to the warehouse. 

“Clint, we gotta move.” Steve tugged Barton, now carrying the large yellow dog, out of the container, ushering him firmly and quickly toward the back exit just as the cops entered the warehouse from the front. Barton wasn’t paying any attention but he let Steve lead, and they managed to get to Barton’s truck parked a couple streets over, driving away from the warehouse as more cops came around the back. 

In the driver’s seat, he glanced over at Barton. The yellow dog was panting noisily on Barton’s lap with an expression that seemed to say, “Look at the world!” so happy to be free of its cage. The smell of unwashed dog grew stronger with each passing second. Steve rolled down the windows. 

“So, what are you going to do?” asked Steve. Barton blinked at him. He looked like he had disassociated and wasn’t mentally present. But they had a dog now they had to deal with. Taking the dog to a shelter wasn’t an option. With the Snap, there were a lot of homeless house pets, and every animal shelter was full to the brim. Steve stopped from thinking about Max and Pixie, all the way back in Oregon—had someone found them? Had they lived? 

“What?” asked Barton, waking a little, confused. 

“Well, he’s your dog now. What are you going to do?” If Barton didn’t want the dog, they should have left it for the police to find. One of them might have adopted him.

The dog relaxed into Barton’s arms, making himself at home, turning his head to stare adoringly into Barton’s eyes. 

“Shit,” said Barton, with a crease between his eyes, realizing suddenly what he had done, holding the dog like a baby in his arms. 

Steve grinned, patting Barton on his chest. “Tell you what. I’ll take you back to the room. You give him a bath, and I’ll run for some supplies. How’s that?”

Barton mumbled, “Okay.”

When Steve came back to his hotel room after locating a pet store, he found the bathroom a wet disaster scene, with puddles of water on the floor and sodden dirty towels everywhere. But no Barton and no dog. The rest of the room was empty too, with wet dog and human footprints leading to the balcony. 

He felt a bead of panic and approached the balcony slowly. Barton was sitting on the floor with his back against the balcony railing, damp from head to toe, tears in his eyes. The wet dog whined with concern, sitting on Barton’s legs. Steve immediately looked for weapons, for a gun or a knife, feeling profound relief when he didn’t see any. It was just Barton and the dog, both smelling like wet dog, sitting together. 

Steve set his supplies down and went to sit beside Barton. Barton’s watery eyes met his, and he shook his head, as if ashamed. The dog looked from Steve to Barton and back again, then rested his head on Barton’s lap. 

“You want to tell me about it?” asked Steve. 

Barton swallowed, tried clearing his throat, tried to speak. His voice was thick, gravely, and whisper-broken. “For the past year before…before what happened,” said Barton. He scratched and petted the dog’s head and neck. “The kids begged us for a dog. Lila was the mastermind. She made Nate ask us. Knew we couldn’t say no to the kid. Laura and I talked about it. We were just waiting for the house arrest to lift.” He took a deep shuddering breath, a hand buried in the dog’s thick hair. “I asked Nate if we got a dog, what did he want to name him.”

“And what did he say?” asked Steve. 

“Lucky,” said Barton. “I asked him why? Why that name? And he said, ‘Because I’d be lucky if I had a dog,’” and Barton. He took the dog’s face in both hands, cupping it, holding it still. “Lucky. Is that your name?”

Lucky looked into Barton’s eyes, then tried to inch a little closer so he could lick Barton’s face. 

“Clint,” said Steve, waiting until Barton looked at him. “You get your family back.”

Barton scrunched his eyes shut, so upset he tried to get away, cramped as he was between the tight space of the balcony and Lucky sitting on his legs, but he curled in on himself. “Don’t say that. Please don’t say that.”

Steve forced Barton up, gripped him by the jaw. “Hey.” Stormy blue eyes met his. “This world we’re in right now? It’s not permanent. You get your family back.”

Barton tried to shake his head within Steve’s strong grip. “I can’t,” he said.

“Have I ever lied to you?” asked Steve.

The fight went out of him, and Barton slumped, head bowing. Steve gripped his shoulder hard enough to hurt him. “I can’t have hope, Cap,” rasped Barton, desperate.

Steve brought Barton’s hands back down around Lucky. The dog snuffled, shifting his weight, gazing at Barton. “Hold on to Lucky, then. Until you can have hope again.”

Another shuddering breath from Barton, raspy and wet. Lucky went on his back, his paw waving in the air until Barton grasped it. “Okay,” he said, softly. 

Steve sighed, patting Barton’s face. “Good man. Come on. Up you get.” He helped Barton back onto his feet, and all three returned to the room. 

They waited around Miami until the next afternoon, long enough to make sure Valenti was back in custody, and not getting out any time soon. After that, it was time to say goodbye. Steve walked Barton to his truck parked a block from the hotel, and helped carry the rest of the supplies they’d bought—a dog bed, foldable metal crate, bags of dog food. 

Barton held out a hand for Steve to shake. Steve took it, but pulled him in for a hug. “Where’re you off to?” asked Steve. 

Lucky sat in the passenger side of the truck, panting happily with that same expression he had when they rescued him, the one that said, “Hey, look! There’s a world out here!” as he grinned from ear-to-ear, extra fluffy from his recent bath. Barton shrugged, glancing at Lucky. “Home to the farm for a bit. It’s been a while.” Steve nodded. “You?”

“North, again,” he said, vaguely. “I’ve got some things I gotta see to.”

Barton narrowed his eyes at Steve, and tilted his head. “Something’s different about you, Cap. Can’t quite put my finger on it.”

Steve felt a flush creep up his neck. “Do me a favor? Call Natasha. Not all your family is gone, you know.”

Barton’s face darkened, but he nodded. “Yeah, all right.”

“Go on, get out of here,” said Steve, giving Barton one last hug then pushing him toward the truck.

Laughing a little, Barton got into the cab, but he still gave Steve an odd look as he started the engine. He waved with a flash of that old Barton charm, then pulled out into the street. Steve waited until he turned a corner and disappeared.


	3. Esopus, New York

He parked the Tahoe about a half-mile up the road from the property, then waited until it grew dark. From the backseat, tucked away among his and Bucky’s things, he removed a flat, portrait-sized brown paper wrapped package. When dusk began to settle, he started the trek across the woods. 

It was full dark by the time he reached Tony’s house. Several lights were on, the windows glowing. The rest of the property was hushed with the quiet of winter. Snow covered the lawn. It was painful to be back, to see the outline of Tony’s house against the night sky, with the still, cold lake in the background. He hadn’t thought it would be, but it was salt on a wound he thought had healed. 

Making as little sound as possible, he stepped onto the porch and laid the wrapped package down on one of the chairs. As he turned to leave, the screen door creaked open and Tony stepped out. “Cap? Is that you?” Tony asked, surprised. 

Steve’s heart thumped, the cold air making his lungs ache. Tony was wearing a dark sweater with the sleeves rolled up, holding a hand towel. He looked at Steve with that same wary but amused expression that he so often gave him.

“Hi, Tony,” he said, straightening to full height, resigned to this meeting. Tony was somewhere between the gaunt man who had come back from Titan, and the man Steve had met on this same porch two and a half years from now. He had his health back, but he was still narrow in the face, still showed signs of his illness. 

“What are you doing here?” Tony peered into the darkness to the driveway and through the woods. Much as Bruce had done, he searched for signs that the others were coming, and Steve knew Tony was prepared to activate his suit if need be. “Not that I don’t love random, night time, unannounced visits from old…teammates who I haven’t seen in a couple of years.”

“It’s just me. I came alone,” he said, and Tony stopped searching for incoming danger, the tension leaving his body. That simple trust in Steve—that he spoke the truth, that Tony knew Steve wouldn’t bring danger to his front door without some kind of warning, despite everything that lay between them—caused Steve to inhale sharply. He cleared his throat, and looked down at his feet, ashamed for a reason he couldn’t quite name. “I, uh, parked up the road. Didn’t want to bother you.” To cover how wrong-footed he felt, he stepped around Tony and picked up the package from the seat to give to him. Tony hadn’t noticed it was there. “Here. This is for you.”

Tony—who Steve knew didn’t like being handed things—took the package, giving Steve an odd look. “What’s the occasion?” he asked. 

He struggled with what to say. He hadn’t planned on actually speaking to Tony. “Oh. I don’t know. Call it a combo wedding gift and congratulations on the baby. I’m late on both. How’s Pepper?”

If he had his dates right, Morgan Stark would be almost eighteen months old right now. 

“Spends most of her time chasing after a toddler,” said Tony with a weary laugh. “Yesterday, Morgan learned how to open all the lower kitchen cabinets, despite the safety locks we installed. She took out the pots and pans, emptied everything out without us realizing it. But today Uncle Rhodey’s visiting, so she’s all about him right now.” They shared a smile until the moment eased back into a waiting silence between them. 

Steve realized that, when he had returned the Tesseract he had stood beside Howard Stark when Howard was awaiting the birth of his first and only child. The parallels between father and son, the staggering similarities and glaring differences between these two men—both of whom had monumental, incalculable influences on Steve’s life—rendered him momentarily speechless. 

Something of his thoughts must have shown on his face because Tony took a step forward. “Steve, are you all right?” he asked. 

“Uh, yeah,” said Steve, swallowing, raising a hand that was thankfully steady to rub at his forehead. “I just…wasn’t actually expecting to see you.”

Tony’s dark eyes caught all of Steve’s tells. Everything that was said when Tony had come back from Titan remained an ocean of space between them. That was two and a half years ago for Tony, but over ten years ago for Steve. Even with all that space, Tony knew Steve too well.

“Are you going to open it?” he asked to push away the moment, but then he immediately regretted it. He’d rather Tony opened the gift when Steve wasn’t around, not certain how he was going to explain it. But it was too late now. 

Tony frowned at him, then ran a finger under the folded down edge of the brown paper, popping the tape on one end, doing the same on the other. The brown paper fell away. Tony froze, staring at the drawing, moving closer to the light from the window to see it better. 

Steve had drawn it from memory over many nights sitting quietly with Bucky on their deck in the house in Oregon. He hadn’t gotten much of a chance to see Tony with his daughter, something he regretted very much. But there had been one afternoon, while they were still building the platform and figuring out the Time Heist, when Pepper had brought Morgan to the compound so she could see her father. 

He had observed the pair from a distance. Morgan had Tony completely wrapped around her finger, and for the two-hour visit, Steve witnessed Tony at peace. That was what he tried to capture in the drawing—Tony with a four-year-old Morgan, beaming with happiness. 

The caption beneath the drawing read, “Tony and Morgan, 2023.” He signed it “SR,” like always. 

Steve barely dared to breathe. Tony passed his fingers over her name, and the year. “Do you see into the future?”

“You know that’s not possible,” said Steve, speaking carefully. For the life of him, Steve couldn’t read what Tony was thinking.

“How do you know what she looks like? You’ve never seen her,” said Tony. “Not once since she was born. And we asked that no one send any pictures of her. Maybe you don’t know what a toddler is—she’s too old here. But this is her.” Tony traced a finger down the drawing of Morgan’s shoulder length hair. 

Steve had promised himself years ago he would never lie to Tony Stark again, not after everything that happened between them. “Would you believe it’s just a good guess on my part?” 

Tony frowned, tilting his head. Steve could see the path of Tony’s thoughts. How could Steve know? Had he used some kind of tech to age a picture of Morgan? Who had given him that picture to begin with? From there it was a simple leap to questioning motives. Was Steve not Steve but some kind of imposter? 

But Tony wouldn’t guess time travel because time travel was impossible—a fantasy, a pipe dream. 

“Tony,” he said, stepping into the light from the window so Tony could see that it was really him. “It doesn’t matter how I know what she looks like. But, do you see your face here? Both of your faces? You and Morgan. That’s how I remember you.”

“Steve, you’re really starting to unnerve me,” said Tony, trying to laugh it off.

“I know, I’m sorry,” said Steve. He gripped Tony’s arms and pulled him in for a hug. It was out of character for them to show physical affection like this, but Steve didn’t care. Tony’s arms come around him, and Steve felt his carefully maintained control shatter to pieces, grateful that Tony couldn’t see his face. 

“I better go,” he said, turning so Tony couldn’t see how close he was to losing it. He had to get back to the car before he said anything else that gave him away. God forbid either Rhodey or Pepper came out looking for Tony. “I…it’s good to see you,” he said. 

“You too,” said Tony, still confused, even a little dazed. 

Steve left the porch, but as his feet hit the gravel, he abruptly stopped as if an unknown force blocked his path, like he banged right into an invisible wall. He spoke before he could think better of it, turning back. “Tony?”

“Yeah?” Tony hadn’t moved from his spot on the porch. 

“Do you ever think about what you would do if we had all six Stones?”

Stillness. Tony’s eyes caught the light from the windows. They glittered and shone. “What do you mean?”

“If we had all six Stones. Do you ever think about how that would work? The gauntlet’s destroyed.”

“Steve, why are you bringing this up? There’s no point.”

“But just say, for the sake of argument, that it happens, somehow. We get all six Stones. What would we do? Could your suit handle it?”

“I…don’t know,” said Tony, frowning. Then he shook his head. “No. Probably not.”

They fell silent, the connection between them pulsed as their eyes met, electric, shocking. And then it dissolved, and the night continued on as it had before. But Steve kept his eyes on Tony. “Something to think about,” he said, and started walking backward, farther and farther away. “You never know what the future holds, Tony.”

There was movement from inside the house. Pepper called for Tony, wondering what he was doing out on the porch for so long. Tony turned to answer. Steve took the opportunity to disappear, melting into the darkness. He waited a beat, watching Tony realize he was gone, searching through the darkness with a questioning, uncertain expression. Steve wondered if Tony would use his suit and come after him. But both Pepper and Rhodey called him a second time, and Tony went inside. 

Steve watched the house for another minute before he walked back through the trees.


	4. New Asgard, Norway

He arrived in Norway several hours after sundown, chilled to the bone from the flight with Mjolnir across the North Atlantic. Because of the short winter days, it was early evening but it felt like the middle of the night. The sky was filled with the light of the Aurora Borealis, bending and twisting in magical formations, casting an eerie glow over the snow-covered landscape of craggy hills, steep cliffs, and foaming ocean. He left Mjolnir safely hidden on a snowy hillside, tucked behind several rocks, then began the walk into town. 

Snow crunched beneath his feet and the glowing night sky kept him company. It was breathtaking country, maybe not as wild and as alien as the old Asgard had been but no less beautiful. He hiked down the hill, passing the sign for New Asgard. Half an hour later he entered the village, not certain where to go. As he got near the wharf, Steve asked for directions. “I’m here to see Thor. Do you know where I can find him?”

“Ah, good luck, mate,” said a red-cheeked man, knit cap pulled low across his brow. “At least you came at the right time. He’s by the pub, getting his supplies.”

The man hurried off before Steve could ask him where the pub was. He stopped a second pedestrian and asked the same thing. She paused, studying Steve like she wanted to know what business he had with Thor and why would he bother. “There’s only one place he goes,” she said, pointing to a building near the waterfront. 

The pub was weather-worn and aged, like it had stood facing the sea for centuries, but someone had splashed a fresh coat of paint on it. An Asgardian design motif had been added to the façade, and a swinging sign hung over its door with an image of a coiled snake, its head raised, one eye winking. The sign read The Midgard Serpent.

He was about to enter when he heard voices from around the back of the pub—two or three different people speaking over a kind of grunting scuffling noise, and then a familiar voice lashed out. “Go away. I don’t need help.”

No one took notice of Steve as he approached the crowd surrounding Thor struggling to pick up two beer kegs on his own, tripping on his robe. He dropped one keg and then the other, and then tried picking up both again, this time adding a third keg. It wasn’t the weight that was the problem, but the size and shape of the kegs made it awkward and Thor was trying to pick them up while clearly inebriated.

“Let us help you,” said a woman, trying to get the other end of one of the kegs for Thor. Steve recognized Valkyrie, and then he noticed Korg who he had mistaken for part of the wall. Wherever Korg was, Miek wasn’t far behind, and sure enough Steve spotted the insect-like being off to the side, wearing his exoskeleton harness. The other two individuals were Asgardians, by the look of them. 

“Don’t bother,” mumbled Thor, bending down, his arms wrapped around two of the kegs, trying to get a third one in his grasp, unsteady on his legs. “I can manage. Go away,” he said again. “Leave me alone. Go! I don’t want you here.”

Valkyrie’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t leave. The other two Asgardians took a step back to give Thor more space, but they didn’t leave either.

“What’s going on here?” asked Steve. 

Everyone turned when he spoke though no one answered. Valkyrie frowned, not exactly pleased to see him, but he stepped past her and the others, noticing the neat pyramid stack of beer kegs by the back wall of the pub with a sign to one side that read, “Reserved for Odinson.” 

Thor’s hair had grown long enough to flop over his eyes. He plopped down on his rear end like he needed a break, and hadn’t realized Steve was there until Steve knelt beside him. 

“Hi,” said Steve.

It took Thor a second to focus, but then a simple smile of delight broke across his face. “Captain?” he asked. 

Steve smiled back. “Yeah.”

But Thor’s smile vanished. “No,” he said with pain, turning away. “You shouldn’t be here. Go away. Don’t look at me.”

“Thor,” said Steve, trying to be gentle, but he hastily stepped back when Thor began flailing.

“No,” roared Thor. He pulled up part of his robe to cover his face as he got back on his feet, but he also tried to pick up one of the kegs again. It slipped out of his hands, falling with a loud _thunk_. Thor yelped as it landed on his foot, then he tripped over his robe again, falling onto the two other kegs. He tried to regain his balance but toppled into the keg pyramid, knocking over the whole thing. A keg conked him hard on the head, and Thor collapsed to the ground flat on his back, knocked out cold.

Valkyrie sighed. “Well, that was shit.”

“Is this as bad as it gets?” asked Steve, stooping to make sure Thor was breathing. Korg and the other two Asgardians busied themselves re-stacking the kegs while Miek made chittery noises, giving them directions. 

“Just about,” she said, eyeing him narrowly. “Why are you here? The last thing his majesty needs is you lot coming in here making things worse. He has good days and bad days. This is one of the bad days.”

He shook his head. “Just thought I’d visit.”

“Yeah, well. It’s been years, mate, and you’re the first to visit. It’s a bit late for that. You shouldn’t have come. It’ll just be worse when you leave.”

She had a point, and he put his hands on his hips staring down at Thor. His beard and hair weren’t quite as epic as they would eventually become in another two and a half years, but they were well on their way. “You realize, the entire team is in as bad a shape as he is, right? Everyone’s a mess.”

Valkyrie rolled her eyes, zeroing in on him. “You seem all right.” 

“No,” he shook his head. “Don’t believe what you see.”

She studied him, and he held his breath until she appeared to soften. “I’m not judging. I know how it is, and I’ve been there myself. And I’d still be there, if it weren’t for Thor. I owe him my patience. And I’m not without sympathy. Believe me.”

They both stared down at Thor as Steve wondered what, if anything, he should do. The others were careful to avoid stepping on him, but no one was in a hurry to get Thor off the cold ground and seemed content to let him lie there indefinitely. “Listen, I know I’m only here for a short time, but I am here as a friend. I wanted to see him. If you think I should leave, I’ll go.”

She pinched her lips, taking a long moment to think about it as she looked Steve up and down. “What’s different about you?”

He tried to look innocent, instinctually realizing Valkyrie would suss him out in a second if he let her. “I think I can help. A little.”

She glared but then sighed in frustration. “I guess he seemed happy to see you. Do what you can.” She went over to Thor and tapped his cheek. Thor frowned, irritated while still unconscious, groaning. “I can help you carry him home.”

Steve took one of Thor’s arms, hauling him up, and getting most of Thor’s body under his shoulder, lifting him in a fireman’s carry. Thor groaned again. “I got him,” said Steve, shifting his weight and finding his balance as Valkyrie raised an eyebrow. “It’s not the first time I’ve carried an unconscious Thor. Where does he live?

Thor mumbled. “Whoa, upside down now,” he said, in a kind of wondering, confused tone. “Feel sick.”

“Do not throw up on me,” said Steve, speaking to Thor’s rear end. To Valkyrie he said. “Maybe I should get him home quickly.”

She laughed. “All right, tough guy. This way.” 

Steve followed Valkyrie to the other side of the wharf, up a few stairs to a landing where a house stood. It looked like it might have been a boathouse in a past life, or maybe storage for fishermen, partially built on wooden stilts jutting out over a small cliff. Thor grumbled another protest. “The beer,” he said, plaintively. 

“The beer’s not going anywhere,” said Steve. 

Valkyrie opened the door for him and stepped aside to let him enter. He paused in the doorway, accidentally banging Thor’s head on the frame. Thor whined. “Could you do me a favor,” Steve asked, turning to Valkyrie. The Aurora Borealis cast a golden-green hue over her skin. “Do you think you could keep Korg and Miek with you for a bit?”

He knew Korg and Miek were Thor’s main companions. They’d proven to be good friends, but their presence would just complicate things for him. 

She gave him another long, questioning look, still trying to figure him out. “Yeah, all right. Good luck,” she added before he turned to enter and she closed the door. 

Steve sighed, needing to slide along sideways through the narrow, cluttered hallway to avoid hitting Thor on the head again. With not much light to see by, he got the impression that Thor’s home was small, cramped, and rather dingy. It was difficult to imagine Thor living here, especially when Steve knew what the palace on Asgard had been like. 

“Tough times, huh,” said Steve, looking around the untidy living room by the light of the Aurora Borealis filtering in through the window. He carried Thor down another short narrow hallway, finding a small, dark bedroom. It reminded him of ship quarters, with barely enough room to turn around. 

He flopped Thor down on the bed, but Thor promptly slid halfway off, landing on the wooden floor to lean against the bed frame. Steve sighed, taking off his coat, hat, and gloves—manhandling a semi-conscious demi-god was sweaty work, even in the dead of winter.

Thor blinked, trying to figure out where he was. He grinned when he saw Steve. “It’s you.”

“Yeah,” said Steve, crouching to Thor’s level. “What are you doing down there? Come on, you gotta work with me,” he said, hauling Thor up by his armpits. He managed to get Thor half onto the bed, scrambling around to get rid of Thor’s shoes, removing the soiled robe and attempting to push Thor further onto the bed but falling half on top of Thor in the process. “Oof,” he said.

Thor chuckled as he brought his arms around Steve to hold him in place, gazing at Steve with a sleepy, goofy smile. “My apologies, Captain,” said Thor. “You find me rather indisposed. Not sure I’m up for amorous pursuits tonight.”

Steve’s entire face burned red hot. What a ridiculous position he was in, with him lying on top of Thor, face-to-face. “Thor, you know that’s not why I’m here.”

Thor rumbled with another low chuckle, but his broad smile slipped way. He continued watching Steve but now with a touch of sadness. “Shame,” he said, patting Steve’s face. Then he closed his eyes, and turned away. 

Steve sighed, knowing the alcohol made everything raw and painful. He wondered if Thor drank so much both to numb the pain and also to amplify it, to forget only to feel worse, because he thought he deserved it. He made Thor look at him, meeting his shining, wet eyes. “Come here,” he said, and pulled Thor in for a hug, both lying together on the bed. “I’m sorry,” he said. 

Thor tightened his arms around Steve, snuffling into Steve’s neck. “I like this,” said Thor, conscious enough now that he could shift himself into a more comfortable position on the bed, but he clung to Steve and didn’t let go. With an octopus-like grip, Thor wrapped both arms and legs around Steve. “May not be up for love-making but I do like a good cuddle.”

“Thor,” protested Steve weakly, his ears burning. But he gave in, barely managing to take his own shoes off, wiggling out of his belt, before getting his arm around Thor. It was a narrow bed with hardly enough room for two such tall, broad-shouldered men, but Thor made himself small, hugging Steve like a teddy bear. “All right,” said Steve. “I’m here.”

He passed his hand through Thor’s hair, gently petting down his back, physically trying to soothe away the sadness as he pressed his lips against Thor’s forehead in memory of the kiss the other Thor had given him the last time they had seen each other. Thor smelled like the sea and unwashed Asgardian. A second later, Thor’s body relaxed, and Steve felt him slip into sleep. 

“You’ll get through this,” he said to the sleeping Thor.

Hours later, the loud blast of a boat horn woke him with a start and he opened his eyes to the complete darkness of early morning. Neither he nor Thor had moved during the night. Thor was snoring but resting peacefully. Without waking him, Steve slipped out of bed. He checked the local time. It was just past six in the morning, and when he looked out the window in the living room he could see the sky lightening above the sea, turning from an inky black to a mottled gray. There was a cargo ship chugging into port as it let off another loud blast from its horn, announcing its arrival. 

He found Stormbreaker in the living room, resting against the stone hearth of the fireplace with a layer of dust on it. “Hello,” he said to the weapon, patting it once before bending to start a fire, hoping to take the stinging chill out of the air before he found Thor’s bathroom—small and cramped like the rest of the house. It could do with a thorough cleaning, but Steve had used worse during the war. Bruce and Rocket had described Thor’s living conditions as little better than a hovel, but the house actually had a lot of charm to it, bigger than it had seemed at first, and built with shiplap and other odds and ends. Steve found a rather large kitchen—the biggest room in the house—and another bedroom that looked like it belonged to Korg and Miek. Did Korg sleep? Steve had no idea. 

He showered, grateful for the hot water, and then made free use of Thor’s clothing, glad to see that Thor had more than just loungewear and pajamas, and that most of it looked laundered. He put on a pair of warm trousers, a long-sleeved shirt, and a thick woolen sweater. Then, he went through the house and began collecting all the alcohol he could find, checking nooks and crannies and every conceivable hiding place, pouring it down the sink in the kitchen. He didn’t think it would stop Thor from drinking, but he wanted to slow down the consumption. Considering he and Thor had a similar metabolism, he couldn’t fathom the amount of alcohol Thor must be drinking to maintain this level of inebriation all the time. 

Reasonably sure he had most of the alcohol out of the house, he put on his coat and hat and went out to meet the dockworkers waiting to unload the cargo ship making its slow way into the harbor. The sky had lightened to slate gray. A fog rolled in. He found the man in charge—the same red-cheeked man he’d asked directions from the night before. “Ah. So I’ve heard you found him,” said the man. “My name is Magnus.”

“Yes, thank you,” said Steve, shaking Magnus’s hand. “Steve Rogers. I was wondering if you could use some help?”

Magnus rubbed at his forehead, revealing a wild mass of red hair when he took his hat off. He looked at Steve shrewdly. “From you alone, or with Odinson?”

Steve took a second to assess Magnus’s meaning. “Well,” he said, gazing at Thor’s little home. “I’d like to get him out of the house.”

“Hah,” said Magnus, gruffly, but he didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached behind him, revealing an Asgardian sword that had been hidden by magic at his back. It was similar to the sword Steve had used when he’d returned the Reality Stone. For a second, Steve could see Magnus wearing the Asgardian armor. “I fought beside him. A few times. And my brother, Volstagg, was his mate for many years.” Magnus showed a rough sort of sadness, mentioning his brother. Even in the dim light of the winter morning, the sword gleamed. “I was with him when he saved us from the Goddess of Death, though it cost us much. And I suppose, I’ll be with him when the next battle comes, which I can see as a shadow on your face.” Magnus pointed the sword’s hilt at Steve, his blue eyes twinkling, but he turned the sword around and hid it behind his back again. Magnus stood, pulling his hat down on his head. “Yes. I could use two more men today. We have much to unload, and there’s a storm on the horizon. We best get it done quick.”

“Thank you,” said Steve.

When he returned to the little house, he found Thor awake and searching through each room, half in anger, knocking over books and knick-knacks off shelves, overturning cushions and throwing furniture aside, but he stopped when he saw Steve again, his face showing shock, delight, and then sorrow, with each emotion chasing the one before it. “Oh,” he said, with a flush of embarrassment. “I thought I dreamed you.”

Steve took stock of the mess, everything on the floor. “No. I stepped out to speak with Magnus.”

Thor grimaced, returning to his search, pulling the couch away from the wall, turning it over. “I had…here somewhere. Can’t find it.”

“I threw it all out,” said Steve. “Whatever I could find. Every bottle I could find. Poured it down the sink.” 

The look Thor gave him singed the air with electricity. Steve felt moments away from having a bolt of lightning strike him down. He had rarely, if ever, had Thor’s anger directed toward him like this. It made the hair on the back of his neck rise. 

“If you really want a drink, I won’t stop you,” he said, stepping aside to let Thor see the door. All those kegs were still down by the pub. “But I don’t think you do.”

Thor growled, eyes sparking. He paced, with no way to release his anger. But he didn’t leave. “Why are you here?” he demanded, turning on Steve. 

Steve shook his head and shrugged. “Thought I’d come see a friend. Spend a day or two with him. Find out how he’s doing.” 

Thor’s brow creased, but the threat of lightning vanished. “I’m not fit for company. You should leave.”

Slowly, Steve approached Thor until he stood next to him. Thor kept his face turned away, but he didn’t stop Steve from taking his arm. “You’ll have to ask me to leave.”

Thor’s face crumpled instantly, but he hooked his hand with Steve’s. 

“All right. Then I guess I’ll stay.” Steve gave Thor a smile, though it wasn’t returned. “We’re going to clean this mess up, and you’re going to get dressed, and then we’re going to help Magnus unload the cargo.”

At the mention of Magnus, Thor shook his head, looking pale. “No, I don’t want to do that.”

“I already said we would. Don’t make a liar out of me. Come on. Go get dressed.”

“I am dressed,” said Thor, petulantly, wrapping his robe tightly around him. It was the same robe Steve had taken off him the night before. 

“With actual clothing,” he amended. Thor opened his mouth to protest. “Please,” he added. Thor shut his mouth, then made a frustrated growl of resentment but he didn’t seem able to say no to Steve’s direct request. 

“Fine,” he said through gritted teeth, and stalked off to his room.

Steve looked around at the mess and began righting furniture. He let Thor have five minutes on his own before going to see what kind of progress he’d made. Not much. Thor was sitting on his bed, staring blankly at a pair of trousers he held in his hands, startling when Steve entered the bedroom. 

“Sorry,” said Thor. 

Steve sat next to him. “It’s okay.”

He knew this was difficult. The little things always were. “You know, I spent probably six or seven months not speaking to anyone. I had a routine that got me out of bed, but that was it. You’re not alone in this.”

Thor looked at him with a tight smile, nodding. 

Steve compromised on the clothing. He insisted Thor wear protective hard-soled shoes and he found a comfortable pair of overalls for him to put on. If it made Thor feel better, he could wear the robe, and keep his finger-less gloves. 

Finally dressed, they made it to the front door of the house. It was just before seven in the morning, the sky full of billowing gray clouds, hinting at the incoming storm. As soon as Thor stepped onto the landing and saw the cargo ship with Magnus directing his men, he blanched and shook his head. “I can’t do this.”

“Hey, it’s all right,” said Steve, trying to coax him out. 

Thor shook his head, eyes shut tight. He had trouble breathing. “Please. Don’t make me face them,” said Thor.

“Okay, okay,” said Steve, guiding Thor to sit on the doorstep. “I’m not going to make you do anything. But Thor, they’re your people.”

“You don’t understand. I failed them.” Tears leaked down his face. 

“I do understand.” Thor’s wet eyes looked up at him. “I failed them too. And I failed you.” 

Thor gripped Steve’s hand tightly, squeezing it hard enough to bruise. “No.”

“Yes, I did.” Thor rubbed at his eyes with the sleeve of his robe as Steve knelt beside him. “It’s too much, huh? I’m sorry I pushed you into this. Go back in, and wait for me,” said Steve. “I promised Magnus I would help, but you don’t have to.”

Thor didn’t move, shaking his head, neither letting Steve go nor getting up. When Steve tried to leave a second time, Thor didn’t let go. So, he waited patiently. Thor pressed his forehead against the back of Steve’s hand, breathing noisily—the only sign of his internal struggle. As Steve waited, he watched the men lay down the ramp to unload the cargo. 

With a grunt, Thor stood but kept his hold of Steve’s hand like it was a lifeline. “I’m ready,” he said, his eyes shining but fully committed. “Let’s go.”

Steve smiled. “Are we going to hold hands the whole time?”

“Maybe,” said Thor, with a return of his cheeky humor. It was teasing, but he didn’t let go of Steve’s hand either. 

They made their way down to the docks. Steve expected Thor to turn back but he didn’t, not even when everyone stared at them. Magnus seemed to understand the precarious nature of the situation, and as he greeted them, gestured for his crew to back off and get to work. 

“Where can you use us?” asked Steve, hand still clamped around Thor’s. 

“This way,” said Magnus, leading them up the ramp. 

It was simple but backbreaking work. After the Snap, there was no over-land trade to such a remote part of Norway. New Asgard got most of its goods shipped in by sea—fresh food, dry goods, equipment, technology, lumber, hardware, livestock—all of it came in by boat, and all of it had to be unloaded. The ship had cranes and forklifts for the larger crates, but most of the goods went by assembly line, hand-to-hand, down the ramp to the docks. The men and women sang songs to make the time go faster.

The work reminded Steve of his youth, of Brooklyn in the late 1930s and early 1940s, watching the longshoremen line up every day, Bucky often among them.

At first, Thor was more of a hindrance than a help, prone to distraction, occasionally staring into space, sometimes wandering off by himself and never looking anyone in the face, but he responded to the singing, and bit-by-bit he got into the work. His brute strength came in handy. Between Thor, Steve, and Magnus, they shifted the heavy crates, attaching the cable lines for the crane to swing the cargo to shore. 

High up on the rigging, a pair of cable lines twisted together. While they waited for a crewmember to climb up to untangle the lines, the pub brought up sack lunches for everyone. Steve grabbed a couple of sandwiches and two bottles of water for him and Thor, but when he returned to their spot on the deck, Thor was gone. 

He searched among the crew, then delved deeper onto the deck of the ship, walking between crates and containers. There were too many hiding places. Something made him pause—a sound, a change in the silence. He had about a second of warning before a sword appeared and Valkyrie came out of the shadows, tripping him onto his back. 

He rolled aside and just managed to block her attack. She slammed him up against the wall of a container, pinning him with her knee on his chest, a bright sword to his neck. With one look at her face he knew immediately what this was about. “I can explain.”

Several of the workers, Magnus included, came running over but when they saw Valkyrie they stopped well out of reach. She jerked her head, and one by one they left Steve alone with her, Magnus the last to go.

“Who are you?” she asked, applying pressure against Steve’s chest, making breathing difficult.

“Steve Rogers,” he gasped. 

The sword pressed closer. Steve lifted his chin, tried to shrink away from the sword’s edge. “Rogers is in New York,” she said. “I checked.”

He felt a swell of panic. “You didn’t call me did you?”

Something flickered in Valkyrie’s dark eyes. It told him she might have tried, but the other Steve Rogers wasn’t answering his phone. “You’re accounted for. Brooklyn. Haven’t left town in months. Romanoff sends me reports.”

Of course she does, thought Steve. “Did you call her?”

Her eyes narrowed, but she shook her head. “I decided I’d get answers from you first.”

He sighed with relief. He knew why Valkyrie hadn’t called Natasha, not wanting to stir up trouble if it could be avoided, and Natasha had a tendency to overreact to every minor threat like it was a sign that a second Thanos was about to attack. “Thanks.”

She creased her brow, studying him, tilting the edge of her sword. “Speak. Now. Who are you? And what do you want?”

“Like I said. I’m Steve Rogers,” he said. She pursed her lips and shook her head once. What could he say? How should he answer? He wasn’t here to save the world. He wasn’t here to return her people to her. “I wasn’t lying before. I’m just here to be a friend. What I couldn’t do the first time.”

She snagged on his word choice: _What I couldn’t do the first time._ He saw the moment she put it together. Valkyrie’s nostrils flared. She stepped closer, and Steve sucked in his stomach as if that would save him if she decided to cut his throat. She was powerful, stronger than him, deadly and beautiful. He almost smiled. 

A shout rang out. Thor cried out in alarm. “No! Valkyrie! Don’t kill him.” 

If she had planned to say anything to Steve, he would never know what it was. Thor ran toward them and Steve caught sight of the flask in Thor’s hand that he tried to hide in a pocket. Damn it, thought Steve. But then they all heard a scream of fright coming from the rigging. One of the lines had snapped, and the worker who’d gone up to untangle the cables dangled from thirty feet up in the air, desperately holding onto the crane. Her grip failed, and she fell screaming. Before anyone could do more than shout, Thor leaped onto one of the containers, grabbed another line, and swung around with his robe flapping behind him in the wind the way his cape used to do, catching her. They tumbled to the deck, a tangle of limbs, the robe over Thor’s head. 

There was stunned silence, and then everyone moved at once. Steve ran with Valkyrie toward Thor. A fall like that would have caused grave injury if not death. The woman was stunned, trying to catch her breath. Everyone turned to Thor, who seemed just as surprised as the woman. “Are you all right?” asked Thor. 

“Yes. I think so,” she answered, and then broke out in a smile, throwing herself into Thor’s arms to thank him. He looked startled, then hugged her back. The others all clapped Thor hard, and the mood became celebratory until Magnus called everyone back to work. 

As the crew returned to unloading what remained of the cargo, Steve and Thor and Valkyrie stood together. Thor gave the rigging a questioning look, glancing at the girl he’d saved. “I don’t think that was supposed to happen,” he said, wonderingly. 

Steve turned to Valkyrie. She raised her eyebrows at him. 

“What do you mean?” asked Steve, cautiously. 

Thor wrinkled his brow, then he noticed Valkyrie and stood up straighter, nodding shyly at her. “Hallo,” he said, almost stuttering. 

She rolled her eyes, but there was a smile tugging her lips. “Hello, yourself. You can’t help it, can you?” she said, pointing her sword at him. “Saving them. Is that what heroes do?” she asked. 

Steve looked from one to the other, aware that this was something private between them. Thor looked pained, but he nodded. “I thought so.”

She gave him a curt nod. “It’s what you do.”

Thor frowned. With a glance at Steve, he shook his head. “I don’t know.” 

She shrugged. “Yeah, I don’t know either.” They grinned at each other. Thor took her hand and seemed like he would bow over it, but he only held it tenderly, then let her go.

Valkyrie turned to Steve, one eyebrow lifting, and he prepared for her sword again. Even Thor tensed, watching both of them. Her dark eyes pinned him in place until she gave him a nod. “All right, carry on,” she said, and without a word to either of them left to go speak to the woman Thor had saved. 

Both Steve and Thor watched her. “What was that about?” asked Thor.

“You’re asking me?” said Steve. He shrugged. “She wanted to know why I was here. She was looking out for you.”

Thor sighed with a mix of emotion—sadness, hope, relief, confusion. “She’s been taking care of all of us.”

They fell silent. Then Steve punched Thor lightly on his shoulder. “That was a pretty smooth save.”

Thor grinned, waving it off with a humble shoulder shrug. “Is there any food left?”

After that, Steve sensed a change in Thor, subtle but deep. They found their forgotten sandwiches and stuffed their faces as they got back to work. The threatened storm rolled in by late afternoon, bringing a driving wind and slant-wise sleet and rain. It became difficult to see, but the last of the cargo was unloaded. Steve and Magnus worked to lock down the deck, yelling over the noise of the storm. He looked up but couldn’t find Thor anywhere. 

Magnus touched his arm. “He’s over there,” he said, pointing to the stern of the ship. 

Thor was standing on the very end. The ship rocked up and down with the uneasy waves, the wind lashing around him as he stared into the storm, his robe mimicking his cape, flowing behind him. 

Keeping an eye on Thor, Steve turned to Magnus. “Is there any way to take him out into the storm?”

Magnus’s red-cheeked, weather-chapped grin broke across his face slowly. “Perhaps,” he said. 

Half an hour later, Steve regretted asking as Magnus’s small charter boat dipped and sailed over fifty-foot waves, wind and seawater and rain slashing and sloshing over the deck. Evening had come, bringing endless darkness. Steve clung to what shelter the small cabin could provide while Thor stood on the bow of the ship, laughing and yelling into the storm. 

“Are you worried?” asked Magnus at the helm, speaking loudly to be heard and looking almost as mad-eyed as Thor. “You seem a bit green.”

The ship climbed a tall wave and Steve held his breath as they crested over the top, and then sailed all the way down into the valley of the ocean. “Why would I be worried?” he asked, wishing he hadn’t eaten that sandwich.

Magnus leaned closer to Steve but with a nod toward Thor. “Don’t forget who he is,” said Magnus, as a flash of lightning arced across the sky. 

Unsteadily, his rain gear providing only a little protection, Steve slid across the deck of the boat until he reached Thor. Thor’s hair whipped around his head, loose and chaotic, his eyes glowing as he poured his fear and regret and anger into the storm. Thinking he was absolutely insane for doing this, Steve climbed up to the bow beside Thor. Thor grinned wildly at him, and they both turned to yell into the storm together. 

They made it back to Thor’s house alive if thoroughly wet and crusty with sea salt, having only enough energy to remove their wet clothes and fall into bed, exhausted after a hard day’s work. Steve slept the entire night through until another boat horn woke him in the early hours of the morning. 

This was an interesting habit to form, he thought, gazing at Thor lying beside him in the small bed. They both were far past needing a shower, but it was good to see Thor sleep so soundly. He remembered Loki, who died so his brother could live. Steve hadn’t forgotten his promise. 

He got out of bed, shivering in his underwear until he rummaged around Thor’s clothing for another sweater. Mentally thanking whoever made sure Thor had food in his house, Steve started a pot of coffee. With two steaming mugs, he returned to the bedroom and went to stand by the window. The sky had begun its ascent into day. No clouds, no storm on the horizon—not yet, in any case. With the storm passing, the cargo ship was free to leave. A tugboat towed the ship free of the small harbor. 

It was a good life in New Asgard—rough and tumble, but healthy. He noted several half-built structures popping up here and there. Part of him wished he could stay for longer, but his time here with Thor was ending. He could sense it as he looked out across the growing village.

Thor shifted in the bed, groaning as he sat up, noticing Steve by the window. Steve brought over the second mug of coffee he’d prepared for Thor, who took it gratefully. He felt Thor’s eyes on him. 

“You’re leaving soon,” said Thor, flatly. 

Steve glanced at Thor, bare-chested and with his hair stiff and unkempt from seawater, but he was clear-eyed and sober. The rustic sea-god look favored Thor, perhaps even more than all that Asgardian finery. Thor looked like he had stepped straight out of a Viking history book. “I wish I could stay,” he answered. 

Thor rumbled, managing to sound doubtful as he took a sip of his coffee. 

“Hey,” said Steve, and he took the only chair in the room and brought it over so he could sit facing Thor. “Look at me.” Steve made sure Thor paid attention, waiting for their eyes to meet. “I wish I could stay.”

Thor’s different colored eyes searched Steve thoroughly, questioningly, seeking the truth in Steve’s words. A small crease developed between his brows. “Who are you?” he asked, gently. 

It was like Thor had plucked at a string inside Steve. It twanged and vibrated all along his body. Steve gazed at him. “How long have you known?”

Thor wrinkled his nose. “Probably since the first night, but I didn’t…I was too blind to see it. Man out of time. When do you come from?”

Steve shook his head. He couldn’t tell the whole story again. Instead, he reached for Thor’s hand. Between the two brothers, Loki was the one with the talent for magic, but Thor inherited much from Frigga as well. Not knowing if it would work—Loki had done this by force, but Steve would willingly give it to Thor—he placed the palm of Thor’s hand to his forehead. 

It took a moment as his memories were pulled from him. Steve gave Thor almost everything. The rush was overwhelming. They both gasped when Thor broke the connection, breathing hard. Steve held him steady. Thor tried and failed to speak several times, but his expressive face showed his hope and sorrow. 

Roughly, he patted Steve’s chest, his face. “The lifetimes you’ve seen,” said Thor, his voice cracking. “The lifetimes you will see. When do you let yourself go home?”

It wasn’t what he’d expected Thor to say. He thought Thor would focus on getting the Stones, on bringing everyone back. Instead, Thor looked at him with compassion and a gentle understanding. Steve bowed his head until Thor lifted his chin. They could have said more to each other, but they were both finding it difficult to speak. 

“So, you can lift Mjolnir?” asked Thor, clearing his throat, mischief in his eyes. 

Steve felt his blush. He raised his hand. Through a cloud of dust, Stormbreaker sailed into the bedroom from the living room and into Steve’s hand. 

Thor gasped with delight, looking between the weapon and Steve. 

“Go ahead,” said Steve. “Your turn.” It took Thor a moment to understand. Disbelieving, almost fearful, Thor raised his hand. Steve counted down in his head: five, four, three, two…

Far more polite with Thor than with Steve, Mjolnir flew in through the open window instead of crashing through the walls of the house, snapping into Thor’s hand. 

Thor laughed again. “Oh, it’s good to see you,” he said to Mjolnir, flipping it in his hand, patting the hammer. 

They grinned at each other. Thor, after holding the hammer fondly and reverently, offered Mjolnir back to Steve. Steve took it, and then returned Stormbreaker. 

Through the window, Steve heard the sounds of the village waking—friends calling to each other, a car’s engine driving past, voices singing a call and response on one of the ships in the harbor. Steve realized he was famished with hunger. They showered and dressed, Thor momentarily hesitating when deciding not to wear his robe. 

“No one minds if you do,” said Steve. 

Thor shook his head. “That’s a lie. It hasn’t been washed in ages.” 

Steve grinned. “Well, I wasn’t going to say anything.”

They ventured outside. The day was fresh and cold. The storm had washed away the old snow, bringing with it the first hint of spring. As they reached the public house, Thor paused outside the door with that same look of shame and fear, the anxiety of having to face his people. Steve was about to ask Thor to wait outside for him, but before he could speak, Thor bravely opened the door. 

The pub was full, even at eight in the morning, with tables lined up and all the men and women Steve recognized from yesterday sitting and eating a large communal breakfast. The workers all turned as Steve and Thor entered, and everyone in the room fell silent for one single, unbroken second. Then, all together they cried out in a happy greeting of recognition, waving them over, offering them food. 

Steve felt Thor relax, and then the young woman whom he had saved rushed over and dragged Thor to meet her parents and her small child. Space was made for them at the table, and food was served. 

The meal was merry, boisterous and welcoming. At one point, Steve got up from the table to refill his coffee and ended up watching the scene from the side, unobserved. He sensed a presence beside him and looked over to see Valkyrie. 

“So,” she started. “Do we win? Do we get our people back?”

He grinned. “I don’t think I’m supposed to tell you.”

She made a noise, glancing at him with a sneaky smile. “That’s good.” Her eyes followed Thor. “And have you changed the future, by coming here?”

They faced each other. “Some things, yes.” 

He continued to observe her closely. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her more—but something held him back. He didn’t think it was necessary, and it was her right to discover her future as it happened. “What?” she asked. 

“Do you have a flying horse?”

Valkyrie folded her arms and frowned deeply at him. “How do you know?” He didn’t answer, and in another second her eyes grew wide, and her mouth opened in a silent “Oh.”

“Can I see her?” he asked. 

Without anyone noticing, she led him through a back exit from the pub. The stables weren’t that far away. Inside the small barn, it was warm and smelled of hay and manure. Out of the shadows came a gentle nickering, and then he saw the gray horse appear, her head poking out of the barn door. He didn’t know anything about horses, but he realized she must be very young. 

“She’s not quite two yet,” said Valkyrie, answering his unasked question, patting the horse’s head, rubbing her neck and chest. 

The horse’s soft nose sniffed at Steve’s hand. “What do you call her?” he asked. She had been a sight to behold in battle, brave and magical. 

“Peggy,” answered Valkyrie, feeding her horse an apple. Steve turned to her in surprise. “Short for Pegasus.”

Steve grinned, daring to pass his hand down Peggy’s mane. “Hi, Peggy.”

They returned to the pub before anyone noticed they were gone. Thor was sitting with a small child on his lap—probably one of the first Asgardians to be born on Earth—speaking with the parents of the woman he’d saved. Steve tapped Thor on the shoulder, interrupting the many conversations around him, and indicated he needed to speak with him. Thor’s eyes darkened, but he didn’t hesitate. They exited the pub and walked a short distance toward the wharf. 

“I have to go,” said Steve. With the time difference, it would be early morning in New York. He wanted to get to the compound before daylight. 

Thor nodded, and they reached for each other’s hands, gripping at their wrists. “Will I see you again?”

Steve squeezed tight. “In New York. You can see me in New York, if you visit. That Steve could use a friend.” Thor nodded a little sadly, but he smiled. “They’re going to call you, and ask you to join them at the compound. The other Avengers,” said Steve. “They’ll figure it out. Who I really am. Be careful what you say to them. In two and a half years, everything will change.”

“I understand,” said Thor. They hugged, and Steve breathed deeply to remember this Thor, to hold part of him in his heart forever. “Steve,” said Thor, taking him by the arms. “Promise you’ll make it home. All the way home, to your time again. The Thor from your time, he will miss you if you don’t.”

Steve swallowed past the lump in his throat. “All right,” he said. What was another promise, binding him to the future? “I promise.”

With no more to say, Steve stepped back, raising his hand as he called Mjolnir. Thor grinned as Steve spun the hammer. It pulled him into the air, and he was gone.


	5. Avengers Compound

New York was still gripped in darkness, the dawn a few hours away. He landed outside the gate, once again thoroughly chilled and stiff from the cold trip across the Atlantic. The biometric scan beeped, and the gate unlocked for him. A recent snowfall covered the grounds in several inches of thick, fluffy snow. He was the first one to break the surface, leaving big, gaping footprints as he made his way up the road to the main residence. 

In the eerie quiet, the sky was a dark sapphire color. A few weeks into 2021, only Natasha remained in residence at the compound. He paused before entering the building, seeking the spot along the river where Bruce would build the second quantum platform. Memory flooded over him, and he recalled the early days when he and Sam used to go for runs around the grounds before the compound woke up and began to buzz with activity. 

He went through another biometric scan as he entered the building, the system recognizing him. The rooms were quiet and dark. He found Natasha asleep on the couch in the common area, her pose too similar to the way she had lain at the bottom of the mountain on Vormir, on her back with one arm out to her side. But her chest rose and fell in slow, even breaths.

Approaching cautiously, he sat down on the edge of the couch. “Natasha,” he said. No response. He started to call her again, but in one swift movement she sat up, pointing a handgun she’d kept hidden under a cushion straight at his forehead. “Whoa,” he said, raising his hands. “It’s just me.”

Her eyes widened and she immediately lowered the gun, blinking as she became fully awake, releasing a small gust of air. Similar to both Tony and Bruce, she looked beyond Steve to see if he came alone, her automatic response expecting a mission or an emergency. Then slowly, he saw her remember where she was and what the world was like now. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes. “What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice rough. 

He shrugged, trying to memorize each of her small micro-expressions. _See you in a minute._ “Not sure,” he said. “Felt like visiting.”

She made a face, then picked up her phone from the side table, looking at the time. “At 4:30 in the morning?”

He winced. “Yeah. Sorry. I guess I didn’t think that through.”

She gave him a quizzical look. He held still, not knowing what she might see. Was it all there for her to read, plainly written on his face? 

Tentatively, with a crease between her brows, she touched his hair and tugged lightly on the ends, a finger tracing down his several days’ growth of beard. “Why do you look like you’ve spent a month at sea?” she asked. 

He laughed. Oh, he thought, it’s been a lot longer than a month at sea, adrift in time. “Personal grooming has kind of fallen by the wayside lately. You’re lucky I showered.”

She made a small noise of amusement, then narrowed her eyes, abruptly rising from the couch. “If you’ve come to try and change my mind, you’re wasting your time.”

“Uhh…I don’t…What are we talking about? Are we fighting?” He tried to remember what their last conversation had been at this point in time. 

Wrinkling her nose, she forced him to move out of her way as she gathered up her plate, glassware, and utensils from the meal she’d had the night before, piling it all up together. “I’m fine here. You don’t have to check on me.”

Oh, right. He remembered now. He watched her tidy up the table, carrying her dirty dishes to the sink. 

A few weeks before he had visited and asked, _Maybe you should move into the city._ He hadn’t added the part he _actually_ wanted to say. Maybe you should move into the city _with me._ But he had wanted to, had implied it. To be together, to have each other after losing so many. His heart had been in his throat.

 _And what? And leave all this? My own movie theater and an Olympic-sized pool? A private dance studio?”_ She had teased, though Steve knew she didn’t actually care about any of those things. _There’s work to do. I have work to do. There may be a way to fix this. I’m not ready to give up. And it looks like you have._

He hadn’t known how to convince her. _I don’t want you to be alone._

Her face. He remembered her face when he’d said that. What he had meant was, _he_ didn’t want to be alone. But he couldn’t admit that, and hadn’t even known that was what he wanted to say. 

_You could stay here. With me,_ she said, asking what he couldn’t ask, being braver and stronger, more open to vulnerability. He remembered that hint of yearning in her eyes. She knew him too well, saying the words he couldn’t. _Stay with me. Stay here with me,_ she said.

But he hadn’t been able to remain at the compound. It was stifling, to have all that silence around him all the time, to carry the entire weight of the empty quarters and the silent hallways while combing the universe for any desperate crumb of hope. It was soul crushing. He convinced himself it wasn’t what Sam or Bucky would want for him. Ultimately, he couldn’t stay and she couldn’t leave. _You know I can’t do that._

“I’m not here to change your mind,” he said to her now. Natasha kept her back to him while at the sink. “In fact,” and he felt his throat close in on him. “If I could go back in time…and change what I said that day, I would.”

She glanced over her shoulder at him. “You don’t really think that.”

But he did. He absolutely did. To have these five years with her. “I’m saying, you’re right. You’re always right. I concede all arguments.”

“Now I know you’re joking,” she said with a laugh, leaving the dishes in the sink unwashed. She grabbed a water bottle and leaned against the kitchen island. Though she seemed relaxed, he could tell just how tightly wound she was as she took a sip of water. 

Then it hit him, like one of her gut punches—he was with Natasha, arguing with her over nothing like they sometimes did. He was sharing space with her. They were breathing the same air. He could look at her. She was a physical presence in front of him, animated and alive. Tears stung his eyes and nose, but he covered it with a smile.

“What?” she asked, reading his face.

He tried to find the right words. “This,” he said, his hand waving between them. “Us. Look at us. What are we even talking about? Why are we arguing?”

“Arguing?” she said, like he’d asked why they were singing or twirling or making paper mache gauntlets. “I don’t argue. This isn’t arguing.”

He smiled, throwing his hands up. “See?”

She fought back a smile. “All right. What’s your point?”

He shook his head. “No point. Just…” Again he fought to release the tight squeeze of emotion around his voice, clearing his throat. “This is the most relationship-like we’ve ever been.”

That was the thing about Natasha and him. Something unbreakable was forged between them the day they went on the run from SHIELD. Theirs was one of the deepest, truest relationships he was likely to have his entire life—nothing like his friendships with Bucky and Sam. And for her, nothing like her friendship with Clint. Perhaps it was closer to what he might have with Peggy. But, there was no one else in his entire life besides her he could share this moment with—the loneliness of these five years, this pain. The Snap did its best to pull them apart, but it couldn’t do that for long. They loved each other. They always would. In any timeline. More than boyfriend and girlfriend while never being boyfriend and girlfriend.

Natasha took a seat beside him on the couch. Her eyes were soft, with a hint of a smile. She touched his hair, then his beard, very much like she had when she’d woken up. It was her way of saying she was sorry for arguing, even when they hadn’t really been arguing. “I like your face.” 

“That’s convenient,” he said. “Because I like your face.”

She laughed quietly, lowering her eyes. He took her hand and kissed it. 

“How long are you here for?” she asked. 

He shrugged. “As long as I can manage.” She quirked her eyebrows. “Show me how you spend your time,” he said.

“Oh. Well.” Another coy smile. “That’s going to take all day. Not sure you can handle it.”

Steve didn’t care what they did, as long as they were together. After a breakfast of a couple bowls of cereal, she showed him how she kept tabs on the others, both on Earth and off world, then how she combed through news feeds from around the globe. She continued deep space scans, modified with Rocket’s help to reach across several galaxies. 

He didn’t tell her the scans and simulations were pointless. She knew already, judging by the look in her eyes. But they weren’t pointless if they gave her hope. 

A couple times a week she did an entire walkthrough of the compound, checking on each building. Technically it wasn’t necessary since the compound kept minimal security, and there were cameras everywhere with an AI monitoring the system. 

“I don’t do it every day, but the system isn’t foolproof,” said Natasha as they passed through the covered walkway to the admin building. “Six months after the Snap, I found five teenagers living in the cafeteria. They’d bypassed security somehow.”

He looked around the echoey cafeteria—no signs of life. Glare from the snow poured in through the windows. “What happened to the kids?” he asked. 

“They’d all lost their parents. I called Pepper. She got them help.”

After her rounds, they put on coats and gloves and trudged through the snow to walk along the perimeter, hiking up to the hill behind the hanger. He listened to her slightly labored breathing as they stood side-by-side looking over the entire campus. A sharp, cutting breeze blew, but the walk had warmed them both up. 

“I like to come up here. Get some perspective,” said Natasha. A cloud passed over the sun, easing up on the glare from the snow. They turned in a circle to take in the entire 360-degree view. “When it gets to be too much inside.”

They fell silent. The only sound came from the breeze through the trees and the noisy river—the rush of water, a distant snap of a tree branch breaking under the weight of too much snow. It reminded him a little of that time in Oregon, with Bucky, and he wished there was some way that he could have all those he loved with him at the same time. Life—his life—just didn’t work that way.

“You know what I always wanted to do on this hill?” he asked. She gave him cheeky side-eye, and it made him blush. Ignoring her blatant teasing, he positioned her in front of him so they could share the same vantage point, facing the slope down the hill that led to the buildings. “If you angle it just right, you can probably take a sled all the way to the front door of the residence.”

She looked at him over her shoulder. “ _That’s_ what you’ve always wanted to do on this hill?”

“What? I love sledding. It’s been years though,” he said, as he tried to remember when he’d gone sledding last. 1931? 1932? “I think I was thirteen or fourteen years old the last time.”

“I’ve never been sledding,” she said. He turned her around so he could look at her. Obviously not everyone went sledding as a kid: different cultures, different pastimes, and so many places in the world that never saw snow. But when Natasha said things like this, it reminded him that she had never actually had a childhood of any kind. She gave him a little shrug. “No time for sledding in the Red Room.”

Tuffs of her red and blonde hair escaped her hood. “Wish I could change that,” he said, though she didn’t seem upset about it. Natasha looked at him with an amused, plotting grin. “What?” he asked. 

She grabbed his hand and pulled him after her as she began sliding and slipping back down the footpath to the residence. “No time like the present,” she called back to him.

“Do we have a sled?” he asked, not remembering ever seeing one at the compound. 

“We can 3D print one.”

Less than forty minutes later, Natasha sat down at the helm of their brand new aerodynamic two-person sled, perched at the exact spot calculated for the best launch. Steve gripped the handles, sliding the sled back and forth to create grooves into the snow. “Ready?” he asked.

“Ready!” answered Natasha, her hood up and muffler tightly wound around her face. 

“On the count of three,” said Steve, digging in his heels. “One, two, and….three!”

He pushed the sled, picking up speed until he felt it would pull out of his hands before leaping in just as it sailed down the side of the hill, cold wind blasting across their faces. 

Natasha yelled, “Wheeeeeee!” all the way down, trying to steer. 

“To the left, to the left!” cried Steve, trying to use his weight. The sled veered too much to the right, hit a rock, and sent the occupants sailing in the air to land in a snowdrift. Steve shielded Natasha from the brunt of the fall, but they both sank into the soft snow.

Natasha was laughing and giggling as they popped out of the snow, grinning at him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard her laugh. He soaked in the sound. 

“Not quite as planned,” she said, still laughing, looking around at their position about halfway down the hill. 

“I don’t know, I thought it went great,” he said, gazing at her happy smile.

She grabbed his hand, tugging him up to standing as they fought with the shifting snow bank. “Again!” she cried, falling and tumbling through the snowdrift in her eagerness to get to the overturned sled. 

They hauled the sled back up to the top of the hill and tried again, and again, and again several more times. Eventually, they achieved their goal of steering the sled all the way down the hill, past several trees, rocky mounds and other obstacles, down the slope to level ground, and all the way to the front door of the residence with just enough inertial energy left over to come to a slow stop. 

“Not bad,” said Natasha, hopping out of the sled. 

“Only took us twenty tries,” said Steve, slower to get out, between not wanting the fun to end and being a tad sore from the twenty climbs up the hill carrying the sled. 

She grinned, offering her hand to help him. Famished, they made a couple of sandwiches, eating at the kitchen bar. Natasha was pink-cheeked, hair pulled back in a half ponytail. “You up for something else?” she asked, her defiant green eyes glowing with a challenge. 

Steve sat back in his chair-stool, wiping his mouth and then his hands on a napkin. He couldn’t help but smile as he studied her, but pretended to go along with her attitude. “All right,” he said. “What’s next, Agent Romanoff?” 

They changed into work out clothes, opting for no weapons, and stood opposite each other on the mats in the gym, barefoot. A golden light filtered in through the windows lining one entire wall of the gym, with the winter sun shining on the shimmering river. “After I do my rounds, I come here. Work off energy, and train. Show me what you got, Rogers. Don’t hold back.”

For the first few rounds, she landed him on his back, victorious. Then he began to even the score. He didn’t hold back, but he was learning her all over again. Having sparred with each other several times throughout the years, he thought he knew her but he was wrong. He realized that she had been alone in the compound, practicing every day, training every day. It had changed her. She had always been inventive and deadly, but now he could see her resolve, her fury that had burned itself down and become steel inside her. Even when her emotions grew too large she never let them get the better of her.

They fought until he pinned her. “Are we done?” he asked, staring at her through the prison of his arms, his full weight trapping her in place. 

“What do you think?” she asked, with a knee to his groin and an elbow to his face. 

Something told him this was life and death even though it was just a friendly sparring match. For her, he realized, it was _her_ life, and _her_ death. With sudden clarity, he knew what Clint Barton had faced on that cold mountaintop on Vormir. 

He pinned her down again, then flipped them over so she was on top. It surprised her, giving him the upper hand. He put his arms around her, loose enough that she could break away if she needed to, then simply held on. It took a long, tense moment, certain he was going to get a second knee in his groin for his effort, but she collapsed against him, laying her face against his neck.

A couple minutes passed. He felt her breathing become regular, felt dampness against his neck that he convinced himself was sweat and not tears. As he had done with Thor, he soothed down her back, caressed her hair. “Are we done now?” he asked again. 

“No,” she said, wiggling in his arms like a cat finding a comfortable spot. “You make too good a pillow.” 

He laughed softly, holding her in place, not in any hurry to move. They lay on the workout mats, speaking quietly to each other as the sun cast light rays over the shining river, until Natasha said she needed to pee and Steve’s stomach rumbled with hunger. 

The showers in the residence were spacious, clean, and luxurious. Steve took an extra long time, finally shaving off the days’ growth of beard, before returning to the kitchen and finding Natasha, fresh from her own shower, pouring spaghetti sauce from a jar into a saucepan while pasta boiled. She added too much Parmesan cheese to the sauce, the pre-grated kind that came in a green can from the supermarket. He forgot she was like that. Without having to be asked, Steve hunted through the cupboards, and soon they were ensconced on the couch with their bowls of pasta and cans of soda. It was the best meal he’d had since he’d stepped onto the platform. 

Natasha put on a movie to watch. He finished his food and set his bowl down, preferring to watch Natasha than a movie. “Hey,” he said to get her attention. He picked up the remote control and paused the film after only a few minutes. 

She looked at him expectantly. 

“I don’t know how much time I have,” he said. Natasha tilted her head in a question. “Before I have to… go back. I want to tell you that…” He paused, his chest tight and painful. “That I love you.”

At first she froze, lowering her gaze. Her face went on a journey of different thoughts and emotions before those green eyes met his. 

“I know that’s not something we say a lot to each other,” he said. “In fact, I’ve never said it out loud to anyone else. Yet. Just you.”

He had also been half in love with her since they’d met, but that was more complicated to admit. He was well known to be in love with Peggy Carter, and he didn’t think it was right to lay that on her when he was leaving and the Steve Rogers of this time wasn’t ready. It wasn’t exactly fair to either of them. 

Her eyes followed him closely as he brought one hand up to gently brushed back a loose strand of hair that had fallen across her face. His thumb caressed her cheek. 

“When did you become so smooth?” she asked, catching his hand. 

He smiled. He wanted to say something light and charming, to flirt with her. But instead, the words that almost escaped were a confession. _I miss you._

Because he missed her. So much. Having her with him like this was wonderful and painful, but he would need to leave, and it was tearing him up inside. It was like a constant backbeat to each heartbeat in his chest. He missed her. The emotions stuck in his throat, and his eyes stung as he tried not to show it. But Natasha was too observant. She may not realize the context, but she knew him too well, weaving her fingers with his. 

He took a slow breath in, getting himself back under control. Natasha smiled, half secret, half smirk. She leaned in and whispered in his ear, “You’re a big dork. I love you, too.” Then, she gently kissed his cheek before lifting his arm up so she could tuck underneath, settling against his chest. 

She picked up the remote and started the movie again, continuing to weave her fingers through his. He turned his face to breathe in the scent of her still damp hair. Before the movie ended, they both fell asleep, with Natasha resting against his chest, and his head resting against hers. 

He slept the entire night through with her tucked under his arm. In the morning, a constant chirping ring woke him to gray light filtering in through the windows. Natasha, still sleepy, detached herself from under his arm. A holoscreen popped up mid-air, showing who was calling: Clint Barton. When she realized who it was, her entire body tensed, staring in disbelief for so long Steve worried the call would go unanswered. 

But she found her cell phone, then met Steve’s eyes as she brought the phone to her ear. “Clint?” she asked as she held back tears, scrunching her eyes shut. “Hey,” she said, her voice steady.

Unable to sit still, she paced around the common room as she spoke with Clint. Steve didn’t have to hear both sides of the conversation to know what they said to each other. Clint was on his way in. He would be at the compound in a few minutes. 

Mostly he felt relief that Clint had reached out to Natasha—that had been the plan, after all. But he also felt sorrow and regret. He thought he would have more time with her, but that wasn’t meant to be. He stretched out the kinks in his back from sleeping in an odd position, continuing to watch Natasha. 

She ended the call, staring at her phone in wonder.

“That was Clint,” she said, as she sat beside Steve on the couch. 

He angled himself to face her. “I could tell.”

“He’s coming in. Called from the highway. Should be here in under ten minutes.”

“That’s great,” said Steve, softly.

She nodded, still bewildered, frowning at Steve. “He said he saw you, in Miami.”

Oh, right. Steve swallowed. He couldn’t quite get a read on her, whether she was upset at him or not for not letting her know right away that he had seen Clint. “Yes, I met up with him. I…was going to tell you—”

She shook her head sharply to silence him. In the next instant she launched herself into his arms and hugged him tightly. It surprised him, but he didn’t hesitate. Her body vibrated with energy. 

When they parted, her phone chimed a couple more times, pulling her attention away from him. “What is it now?” he asked her as she frowned at her phone.

“Uh, it’s weird. Just got an email from Bruce. And there’s another email from Tony. He’s asking if I’ve spoken with you.”

Typical, thought Steve. Leave it to his team to decide to rev into action all at the same time. Bruce and Tony must have spoken, and begun to question his appearances into their lives sooner than he planned. Had they tried calling the Steve in New York? 

But this is what he wanted. This is what he could give Natasha. He could give her part of her family back. 

He pulled her cell phone out of her hands, lifting her chin to look at him. Such green eyes. From his pocket he took out the small ornate box, handing it to her. 

“Rogers,” she said with a smirk. “This is so unexpected.”

“Oh come on,” he answered, blushing. “It’s not a proposal. Wait, do you want it to be?” Natasha laughed. He would miss that laugh. “Open it.”

Her amused grin vanished when she opened the box. The orange gem glowed, casting its light. She went from semi-relaxed amusement into coiled tension, ready for action. “Is this what I think it is?” 

He placed his hand over hers, closing the box, cutting out the light. “This is the Soul Stone. You’ll have to keep it safe, until it’s time. This is for you.” He hesitated, seeking the right words. “I wish I could tell you more… One day, it’ll become clear, and maybe I’ll be able to explain. Do you trust me?”

“Steve. How?” She was looking at him, seeking answers. He heard the engine of Clint’s truck drive up to the residence and knew he was out of time. Before he could change his mind, he kissed her on the lips, as much to silence her as to hold on for these last few seconds. She made a small noise in the back of her throat, and kissed him back. His heart thudded strong in his chest. Why did he always wait too long? 

They pulled apart, and he kissed her forehead. “I’m sorry I have to go.”

“What?” asked Natasha, a little dazed.

“There’s no time anymore.” He could stay and see Clint again, but it would only complicate matters further if he did. With effort, he pulled away from her. “When you call me in New York, I’m not going to understand anything you say. Go easy on me. If Bruce or Tony tried to call me, I probably didn’t answer, but I’ll answer for you. And you’ll figure it out eventually.”

“Steve, I don’t understand.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” 

There was a commotion at the front door, then Clint hallooed, his voice echoing down the hallway. Steve heard the jingle of Lucky’s collar, and the _click click click_ of his paws on the floor. Natasha turned to the sound of Clint’s voice, and her face broke out in such a simple expression of relief and happiness. That look would have to sustain him for years to come. 

“Go,” he said, releasing her. 

She didn’t argue, rushing down the hall to meet Clint. They were just out of sight, around the corner, but he could hear Clint say, “Oh. Hi,” awkwardly, and Natasha answer dryly, “You didn’t tell me you got a dog.”

Steve smiled, then found his coat and exited to the terrace. As he called Mjolnir, he allowed himself one glimpse of Natasha and Clint with Lucky at his feet as they return to the common room. The hammer sailed across the sky, rushing toward him, and he was pulled into the morning sky.


	6. Brooklyn, New York

He landed where he’d left the Tahoe parked in stealth mode in an alley two blocks from his apartment in Brooklyn. Blisteringly cold, the wind cut through the alley. It was early enough that no one was around. 

Steve removed a small duffle bag from the back seat. A car drove past the alley. That was the only traffic, but he still looked both ways crossing the street. It was just a few minutes before seven in the morning. Steve Rogers was getting ready to leave his apartment and head for the gym. 

He tried to remember this particular day in Steve Rogers’s history. So much of this period in his life blurred together, the same routine day in, day out. Though, it was the routine that saved him. He’d fallen back on a basic training-like schedule to get him going through every week. Wake up at oh five hundred, then a 10K run through Brooklyn and into Prospect Park, breakfast no later then oh six-thirty. The gym opened at oh seven-thirty. 

The unstructured afternoons and weekends had given him the most trouble. It was like being neck deep in water, just trying to keep from drowning, balancing on his tiptoes. But he’d gone through this before. He had already lost everyone he loved and cared for once before. How many times did he have to go through that?

Outwardly, Steve Rogers had smiled when he said hello or goodbye, he was cordial and polite, and never lost his temper. He said all the right things, going through the motions, hoping that one day maybe he would actually feel it. Fake it till you make it. 

Natasha had called him out on it, more than once. 

What got him through it was Sam. He had Sam’s voice in his head, asking him every day, “What makes you happy?”

_I don’t know._

_I do what he does, just slower._

He had owed it to Sam to try, couldn’t let him down. The same way he couldn’t disappoint Peggy or Bucky. What would Sam do? It was his mantra, his touchstone. 

This is what he remembered as he stood across the street from his apartment, blowing hot air into his hands to warm them—the weight of loss, the burden of surviving. He had gotten through it. It was important to remember that. He wasn’t here to save Steve Rogers. 

At 7:15 on the dot, the other Steve emerged from the building, dressed in sweats, hoodie pulled down low to hide his face. The other Steve would notice immediately if someone followed him, especially with the streets half empty as they were, so he didn’t bother trying. Instead, he took a different route, taking the long way around and changing his appearance. He chose to look like his father again, but older—how his father might have looked had he lived to see middle age. It was risky. He knew he would be familiar to the other Steve, but it seemed fitting as well. 

When he got to the boxing gym, he paid for a day pass, then quickly changed in the locker room. In contrast to the bitter cold outside, the gym was steamy warm. The other Steve was where he always was, beating the crap out of the heavy bag, emitting very strong “keep away, I want to be alone” vibes. But there were only two employees and less than ten members, so the place was practically empty. 

The gym manager called down from his office. “Hey, Rogers. Do you mind not breaking the bag today? I can’t order any more new ones.”

The other Steve stopped, slightly out of breath as he acknowledged the manager with a nod. He steadied the bag, then began attacking it again with only marginally less anger than previously. 

It was as good an opening as Steve was likely to get. Squaring his shoulders and hoping this didn’t go sideways too fast, he approached the other Steve. “Looks like you could use a hand,” he said, bracing the bag to keep it from swinging. 

The other Steve stopped punching to look at him. There was a moment when their eyes met, like static electricity or frisson, when Steve thought, “Oh, shit.” But the other Steve didn’t hold the contact, dropping his unfocused gaze to the bag in front of him. “I don’t need help. Thanks anyway.”

He began hitting the bag again. Though he had been thoroughly dismissed, Steve stayed where he was, bracing the bag against each punch. The other Steve paused, losing some of his momentum. It was weird watching himself. He recognized his own facial expressions, knowing he was struggling between his instinct to be polite and his desire to tell the stranger to get lost. “Come on, don’t stop now,” egged Steve. “Keep at it. Jab, right cross.”

“Look,” said the other Steve. “I don’t mean to be rude. But I’d prefer to be alone.”

“I can see that,” he said, trying not to smile. “You’re attacking this thing like it’s that big purple guy come back to life.” The other Steve straightened, nostrils flaring. Steve pressed on, unconcerned. “You’re all over the place. You’ll be more effective if you focus. Come on. Get your head in there.”

He called out another sequence, waiting for the other Steve to complete it, but he stubbornly stood there in defiant stillness. This was an interesting battle of wills. Steve’s first thought was to think of Tony who would have found this situation hilarious. Two stubborn mules.

Tony, who was still alive right now. 

Steve swallowed past the unexpected pain that felt like a photon blast to his chest. “Left jab, right cross, left hook,” he repeated, his voice cracking.

He couldn’t hide it, not from his own self. But it was his pain that moved the other Steve, even with no obvious explanation for it. There didn’t need to be. The other Steve narrowed his gaze, and then followed through with the sequence. 

“Again,” he said to himself, his voice rough. “Drop your shoulders. You’re being sloppy with that left hook. Again.”

Steve called out sequence after sequence, making them more complicated as they went on, adding kickboxing elements. For the next two hours, he had the unique experience of getting to coach himself, which made him a lot more sympathetic to all of his friends who had ever had to put up with him when he was in a mood. He mentally filed away apologies to both Sam and Bucky. 

They worked together until the morning grew old. When they got tired of the heavy bag, Steve put on mitts, and they both put on shin guards, relocating to one of the mats to spar one-on-one. He coached the other Steve through combinations. It was almost noon and they were barely tired. 

“Come on,” said Steve, taking the mitts off. He led the other Steve to the practice ring. “You got any more left in you?”

“Do you?” asked the other Steve with a hint of cockiness. Steve grinned, handing him boxing headgear. “I don’t usually use headgear.”

“Humor me,” said Steve, putting on his own helmet, then he stood in the middle of the ring. “All right. Do your best to take me down.”

The other Steve didn’t move but instead looked uncomfortable before shaking his head. “It’s not a fair fight.”

Steve knew that to the other Steve he looked like some random middle-aged guy, vulnerable and weak in comparison. “I know who you are. I know you’re strong. This is not about being fair,” he said. “And it’s not a fight. We’re sparring. All you have to do is put me on the mat, off my feet. You manage that three times, and we’ll call it a day.” He paused, then added. “I’m tougher than I look.”

He almost added, “And this isn’t our first time fighting,” but he didn’t, because it was nonsensical and ridiculous. He and the other Steve weren’t two different people. They were the same person, from two different times. 

“You think this is funny?” he asked, more curious than upset.

“You have no idea,” Steve answered. “Surreal doesn’t begin to cover it. So? Are you just going to stand there? Or are you going to do something?”

Finally, he saw a glimmer of fight in the other Steve. Something switched on. He finished putting on his headgear. “Fine. You wanna do this? Let’s do it.”

The other Steve moved fast, almost a blur, coming at him with a one-two combination. Steve dodged the hit, then immediately dodged another, weaving away. There was a moment of surprise from the other Steve as he paused and reassessed his opponent. Steve grinned, then made a “come at me” gesture.

He didn’t use his full strength. It would have been too much of a giveaway. But he did use all of his speed. The point wasn’t to beat up on his younger self, or to beat himself up. He wanted to wake the other Steve up. Get him to feel something other than sadness, regret, and anger. His job was to stay on his feet as long as possible. Steve thought how different it was to fight Natasha than to fight himself. It took ten minutes before the other Steve managed a leg swipe that knocked him down flat on his back. 

“That’s one,” said the other Steve, towering over him. He held out a hand, pulling him onto his feet. They caught their breaths, standing under the gym lights. The other Steve titled his head, giving him an odd look, searching his memory for something. 

“That the best you got?” Steve asked. 

The other Steve laughed with an expression of mild annoyance. Don’t say it, thought Steve. Don’t say it. But he was going to say it. “I can do this—”

“—all day,” finished Steve. “You have to get a different catchphrase.”

The look the other Steve gave him was pure indignation. He attacked swiftly, and they were at it again, moving around the ring. Everyone else in the gym stopped doing what they were doing to watch. A few even hung on to the rings, calling out encouragement or advice. It took closer to twenty minutes for the next time the other Steve knocked him down. He stood up, caught his breath, and then they went straight into the third bout without pausing. 

Slip, parry, dodge, weave. Steve stayed light on his feet, blocking every hit. They sparred until Steve moved on pure instinct. Of course, they were too evenly matched, and something had to give. It was only because he knew what it felt like that he recognized when the other Steve began to get tired, but that was always when he was at his most dangerous. He came in close, almost an embrace, and they looked into each other’s eyes. “Who are you?” he asked. 

Instinct told Steve to show him. It was just a flash. A blink of an eye and he’d miss it reveal of his true face. They were the same yet also so very different. The other Steve’s eyes widened in recognition, but then clouded with confusion and doubt. He got his leg hooked around Steve’s, yanking him off balance. Steve went down, flat on his back, blinking at the overhead lights. 

For the third time, the other Steve offered his hand, pulling him back to his feet. If he was going to say something, mention what he thought he saw, the moment vanished as the other members of the gym entered the ring to shake their hands, pat them on the back and congratulate them both for a good match. 

Steve slipped away, heading for the lockers. He showered quickly and then got dressed but he didn’t make it out of there before the other Steve came in. 

“Can I at least know your name?” he asked. 

Steve paused in the act of folding his sweaty workout clothes into his gym bag, then straightened. “Joseph,” he said. 

He was momentarily pleased he hadn’t said Frodo. Joseph was his father’s name. The other Steve leaned against the lockers, his arms folded across his chest. He hadn’t figured it out yet, but he was close. “You know, something’s been bugging me all morning. Have we met before?” he asked. 

Steve took too long answering. “No. We’ve never met.” He offered him his hand to shake, hoping that would deflect further questions. With a flicker of amusement, the other Steve took it. It was a good, strong grip. “Thanks for today,” said Steve. “I had a good time.”

“We can do it again tomorrow,” offered the other Steve. And oh, he heard the quiet longing in his voice. The desperate wish not to be alone. 

It was difficult to answer him. “I’m sorry,” he said.” Immediately the light left the other Steve’s eyes. “I’m heading out of town today. I’m just passing through.”

Outwardly, the other Steve gave him a tight, amicable smile, nodding his acceptance. “Right,” he said. “Well. It was good knowing you.” 

He went to his own locker, just a few feet away and turned his back on Steve to open the door and take his things out. 

Steve couldn’t leave him like this. Was this what he had been like for all five years? This ultra-calm exterior hiding an ocean of pain and anger? “If you don’t mind my asking,” said Steve. “Why aren’t you with your friends? The other Avengers?”

The other Steve’s shoulders tensed, riding up all the way to his ears. He took out his gym bag from his locker with a rough jerk and half its contents spilled out over the floor. The compass rolled across the linoleum, stopping at Steve’s feet. He bent to pick it up, looking at it, weighing it in his hand. He had an identical compass in his pocket right at that moment, reminding him that he was the same as this other Steve. Heimdall’s words came back to him—no separation, the same across different timelines. 

“It’s complicated,” said the other Steve, taking back the compass. 

“Yeah,” said Steve, conversationally, bending again to pick up all the other items that had fallen, including the other Steve’s cell phone that showed several missed calls. He couldn’t see who they were from, not without being too obviously nosey. “I understand complicated. But,” he added, knowing he was walking a thin line as he handed back his things. “It just seems like you’re punishing yourself.” 

It was a ballsy thing for a stranger to say to Captain America. A muscle twitched in the other Steve’s jaw, but he didn’t deny it. 

“Can I ask, what are you really angry at?”

“I’m not angry,” said the other Steve. Steve gave him a look, and his younger self looked chagrined. “What’s the point of being angry?”

Steve didn’t have an answer for him. Not one that could speed up time. But he wanted to give him hope. “Maybe this is still a back alley brawl,” he said. 

“What do you mean?”

“Well. You’re fighting a bigger opponent. Bigger, stronger. You’re in some alley, somewhere and you just got your ass handed to you. You’re on the ground. Stuffing knocked out. What do you do?” 

The other Steve pursed his lips, but he huffed in grudging acknowledgment. “You get back up.”

“That’s right. You get back up. Right now, you’re still on the ground. That’s what this time is. But you’ll figure out how to get on your feet. You and your friends.” Steve stood up and swung his bag over his shoulder. “You want a stranger’s advice? You were never in that alley by yourself. You’re better with a team, then on your own. You always have been.”

The other Steve seemed to take in what he said, looking thoughtful, which was honestly more than Steve could have hoped for, half expecting to get a punch to the jaw out of it. They shook hands again. “Maybe I’ll see you sometime,” said the other Steve. 

“Probably,” he answered, with a smile. The other Steve’s phone began to ring, and he saw Natasha’s name flash on the screen. Their eyes met, and there was another moment of static electricity, a frisson of energy between them. Steve nodded toward the phone. “I’d answer that if I were you.”

He turned for the exit. When he was out of sight, he paused to listen and heard the other Steve answer his phone. 

“Hi Natasha. Sorry, I was in the gym. What? No, I’ve been here the whole time. What are you talking about?”

Steve heard enough. He left the locker room, and then stepped out of the building, and heading back to the alley where the Tahoe was parked. He got into the car and sat in stillness for a long time before he activated the onboard computer and pulled the small keyboard toward him. He began to compose an email. 

From: Steve Rogers  
To: Steve Rogers

_Steve –_

_Don’t delete this. By the time you read this, you will have heard from Natasha and Clint, and maybe even from Bruce and Tony. Thor won’t be far behind._

_Everything they tell you is true._

_I hope you believe me when I say I came here as a friend. Tony can explain time travel far better than I can. He’s going to say it’s impossible, but it isn’t, and he’s the one that figures it out. I couldn’t change anything in my past, but I had an opportunity to change things for you and those we care about. So I took it._

_In two and a half years a miracle will happen. It will lead to the fight of your lives. By visiting each of you, I hoped to give the Avengers more time to prepare._

_Your friends need you, and you need them._

_Remember, this is a back alley brawl. You fought a bigger opponent and got knocked to the ground. You’ll know when it’s time to get back on your feet and fight._

_Good luck._

_SR_

He changed clothes one last time, then exited the Tahoe, shrinking it down to the size of a toy and putting it in his pocket along with his notebook, his compass, Pixie’s felt mouse, and several Pym discs. His heart was racing as he entered a time and date into the quantum device, then he picked up Mjolnir. A breeze blew as the time suit closed over him and he disappeared. No one was there to see him go.

**Author's Note:**

> I would quite happily put a / for all pairings for this story, but it is intended to be gen. This is not a romance story, but there's a lot of love in it. 
> 
> Out of an abundance of caution, for the scene with Natasha, I am tagging this Steve/Natasha because they love each other and it shows.
> 
> You can find me on [tumblr](http://hafital.tumblr.com/), where I mostly reblog things that make me laugh.
> 
> Please [reblog](https://hafital.tumblr.com/post/615566250781835264/the-third-five-years-chapter-1-hafital) if you're so inclined. Thank you for reading!


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